


A Universe of Possibilities

by Lilyinthesky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Attempted Murder, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Smut, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Gay, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Greg is Sweet, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealous Sebastian, Jealousy, Jim Has Issues, John Watson's Father is Abusive, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade Fluff, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Plot Devices, Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective John, Protective Mycroft, Protective Older Brothers, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Burn, Stalker Jim Moriarty, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Years, Teenlock, very plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyinthesky/pseuds/Lilyinthesky
Summary: All John Watson wanted was to run away from his abusive home life. He did not intend to be caught by the police and ultimately sent to a boarding school for troubled teenagers. He had no idea that he would meet someone there who would change his life forever.Sherlock Holmes just wanted to cure his boredom, and Mycroft Holmes just wanted to protect his little brother. Neither of them imagined they'd get caught up in a drug bust, earning them both a spot at Baskerville's School for Troubled Teens. And neither of them ever expected to meet anyone they actually liked at this school.Nobody expected to fall in love.Nobody expected to be wanted for murder.Life is full of surprises*****Basically I wrote the teenlock fic that I have always wanted to read. Includes johnlock, mystrade, an intense plot, and lots of Sherlock and Mycroft being brothers.





	1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This work was pulled directly from my wattpad, where it still exists under the same title. I will henceforth be continuing it on this platform only, however, for the purpose of separating my fanfiction from my original works. If you are interested in reading any of my original stories, you can find me on wattpad under the username lilyinthesky.
> 
> Further notes for this particular story: I honestly think this is one of the best things I have ever written. So even if you normally have little patience for slow-burns, or are just looking for smut or whatever (no judgements!) then I would still encourage you to give this story a chance. As the tags suggest, smut is eventual, just nowhere near the beginning. And it will happen in pieces, rather than all at once if you know what I mean. If you enjoy the angsty, fluffy, romantic pining parts of relationship developing, I think you will love this. 
> 
> Finally, if you have read my version from wattpad and notice some differences in this version, just know that all differences are intentional. I am on a constant mission to make this story better and more dramatic than ever before.  
> Oh, and of course, I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters, all rights go to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, please don't sue me, blah blah blah. Anyway, all other elements of this story are of my own creation and belong to me, so don't steal my ideas otherwise I'll be very sad.
> 
> Now without further ado, here we go.

It was one of those unbearable August evenings, when the air is so thick with heat that it seems to be sitting on top of your shoulders, weighing you down. John Watson could feel it as he trudged along the dimly lit streets of London, the strap of his duffle bag digging into his shoulder.

_I shouldn't be out here_. He thought to himself, wiping drops of sweat from his brow. Everything, from the awful humidity to the ominous lighting, was telling him to go home. The city was dangerous at night. But he couldn't. He could never go home again.

Just thinking about what he was leaving behind made John shiver, despite the heat. That final image of his shitty excuse of a father beating up his drunken mother on the kitchen floor, while his sister lay drugged up in her room, was enough to traumatize any fourteen-year-old boy. But John had seen it all before, and worse. That was his life.

_Not anymore, though_. He reminded himself, as he continued walking to god knows where. _Not ever again_.

John wasn't really sure what had made him finally decide he'd had enough. There had been plenty of nights much worse than this one, yet John had stayed. Sure, he'd thought about running away millions of times over the years, but he somehow always managed to talk himself out of it.

"My mother needs me," he would tell himself after watching his dad mistreat her, even though she was just as psychotic as her husband when she was drunk. The truth was, they both hit each other, but his father always did the most damage.

"Harry needs me," he would convince himself whenever she came stumbling home after hours of partying, with no one but John to put her to bed and make sure she didn't choke on her own vomit.

In fact, that was exactly what he'd been doing just a few hours ago: watching over his sister as she slept off whatever drugs she had taken, while listening to his parents bitching at each other downstairs, and trying to read a book at the same time.

It was then that John had felt a rush of....something. Testosterone, adrenaline, or just pure anger, he didn't know. But whatever it was made him say to himself "I'm too young for this bullshit.", throw some clothes in a duffle bag, and walk out the front door.

Nobody noticed him leave.

And now here he was, wandering the streets of London past midnight, sweating buckets under one of the hottest nights in the history of England.

John groaned in frustration wondering, not for the first time, why he had such horrid luck. Some teens might have no problem running away; they'd just go straight to a friend's house.

If only John had any friends

Suddenly, he felt tears pooling behind his eyelids. He shook his head and drew them back in before a single one had a chance to fall, as he had long ago learned to do. No use crying about something he couldn't control. He would just have to make do.

At this point, John had no idea where he was going, and he didn't care. That is, until he turned a corner and found himself in an alleyway with a dead end.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, turning around to go a different direction. It was then that he noticed that he didn't recognize a single landmark or street sign. Where the hell was he?

"Shit!" He repeated, much louder. It was a bad sign that he didn't know where he was, since he knew his side of town like the back of his hand. This meant that he had been wandering aimlessly for so long that he was completely out of his territory.

He looked around frantically for something familiar, feeling like a little boy who lost his mum in a supermarket.

"Get a grip, Watson," he told himself. Talking to himself always calmed him down. "It's just dark. You've lived in London all your life, there's got to be something you can go off of."

He went down one of the unfamiliar streets with caution, not knowing what he would run into. But all John could see were houses. Lots and lots of houses. Some were enormous.

John sighed with relief when he realized where he was. This was just the rich side of London. This side of town was safe.

"No wonder I didn't recognize this place," John muttered, laughing to himself. He was so used to the dingy flats and crime ridden streets that came with living on the poor side. He must've wandered quite a bit away from home to be in this place.

Before John could decide where to go from here, the flashing lights of a police car coming around the corner stopped him dead in his tracks. Unfortunately for John, there was one huge downside to ending up in a rich neighborhood: paranoid rich people.

To John's absolute horror, the car pulled over right beside him and the officer stepped out.

"Young man, would you mind telling me what the hell you're doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?" He demanded.

"I-I uh, it-it's not what it looks like," John sputtered in fear, because he knew exactly what it looked like: an obviously poor teenager, covered in sweat, with a large bag over his shoulder, wandering through a rich neighborhood in the dead of night. All it took was one person to look out the window and be suspicious of his figure to call the police. John immediately knew that, no matter what happened now, his journey was over. This officer would surely find out where he lived and take him home.

Funnily enough, that was exactly what happened.

___________________________

John could hardly get out anymore than his pathetic "it's not what it looks like" before the officer confiscated his duffle bag, slapped handcuffs on his wrists, and hauled him to the station.

When they got there, John was put in a room with two officers who went through his bag, which was filled not with cash or valuables, but with enough useless possessions to prove that John was, in fact, not a criminal, but a teenaged runaway.

Then, John was asked a bunch of questions.

"Full name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

"Age?"

"Fourteen."

"Address?"

John didn't want to tell him that one, knowing that he would definitely be taken home, but at three in the morning he was too tired to be difficult. So he told them.

Next, they asked John why he had run away. Immediately, John felt a combination of hope and fear. Maybe if he told them how bad his home life truly was, they would get him out of there. But maybe, he would end up in someplace worse. He had heard some serious horror stories about group homes.

Before John could make up his mind about what to say, however, a third officer, this one female, burst into the room.

"We need backup immediately. Drug bust," she said, her eyes alight with excitement. "And you won't believe who it is."

"Who?" One of the men asked.

The woman officer seemed unable to contain her laughter. "It's that smart arse teenager you guys have been going on about! The one who keeps trying to help us solve crimes."

The two men both raised their eyebrows, seeming delighted.

"That kid's a druggie?" One of them asked, laughing. "Praise The Lord! I've been dying for a reason to arrest that prick."

The other man laughed and nodded in agreement. "I can't wait to wipe that smug grin off his stupid face!"

They both raced out the door to follow the woman officer, and John thinks they've forgotten about him until one of the men hands a slip of paper to another officer outside the door.

"Take that kid home," he told him, pointing at John. "Here's his address. I've got some important business to attend to." Then he ran after his partner, giggling like a schoolgirl.

John had no idea what the hell that was about, or how one teenager could earn so much hate from so many police officers, but he was too tired to contemplate it at the moment. It had nothing to do with him, anyway.

___________________________

By the time John arrived home, it was 3:45 am, and he was practically sleepwalking. Yet, he managed to stay upright as the policeman walked him to his flat and rang the doorbell. And he had just enough energy left to feel fear when his dad opened the door.

John's father was a clever, manipulative man. He took one look at the officer and immediately wrapped John in what appeared to be a hug that a worried, caring father would give. However, John felt more like he was being squeezed to death by a jungle snake than being hugged by his dad.

"Son, thank god!" His father said.  
"We've been looking everywhere for you! We called all your friends. We were just about to call the police."

He pulled away from John and looked at the officer. "Thank you for bringing him home. Please tell me he didn't get into trouble."

John had to admit, he was impressed. This was probably the best performance he'd ever seen from his dad, and he'd once watched him look the landlord in the eye and swear on his life that no one in his family did drugs.

The officer gave a charming smile. "Don't worry about it Mr. Watson. Happens all the time. Teenagers get pissed off about something stupid and decide to run away, we find 'em and bring 'em home. It's what we do."

"Well I can't thank you enough," John's dad replied. "I must say, this one has been giving me quite a bit of trouble recently. And you can bet that he will be punished for this."

The undertone with which his dad said the last part made John gulp. He would've given anything to be back at the police station being interrogated right now.

"Kids these days have no respect for their parents," the officer said. "Believe me. I've had problems with my own kids as well. However, if I may offer a solution-" The officer then pulled a brochure out of his pocket, where he seemed to have a whole collection of them.

John expected his dad to take the brochure and then carry on with his charade, but to John's surprise, his dad began to flip through it with legitimate interest.

"It's called Baskerville's School for Troubled Teens," the officer continued. "It's what we're recommending to all parents nowadays. It's like a regular boarding school, only it focuses especially on correcting behavioral problems. The school challenges your child both academically and physically...."

The officer rambled on with his obviously rehearsed speech, but John had stopped listening. He was looking at his dad, who was examining the brochure. And smiling.

No. No, this could not be happening. There was no way his dad would pay money to-

"-And it's absolutely free-"

NO. Oh god please no, anything but this.

"-Completely covered in taxes, since it's considered a behavioral correction facility, but it's a school, too. And quite a challenging one-"

John felt like he was going to pass out, but no longer from exhaustion. He could practically see his carefully planned future evaporating before his eyes. What university would take someone who graduated from a school for "troubled teens"? What chance did he have of becoming a doctor now?

"-Been sending my own son there for the past two years. The place has worked wonders on the kid."

"Well....you've certainly given me quite a bit to think about," John's dad said, with the most satisfied expression John had ever seen him wear. "Thank you very much, Officer...." He searched for a name tag.

"Lestrade," the man said, revealing a name tag from under his coat. "Officer Lestrade." He then smirked down at John in a condescending manner. "And hey, if you do end up going there, say hi to my son Greg." Then, without another word, the officer strolled off.

As soon as the man was out of sight, John's dad yanked him through the doorway, shutting and locking the door behind them. John found himself grateful that the officer hadn't come inside. The place was just as trashed as it was when John had left, with empty beer bottles everywhere and bloodstains on the kitchen walls. His mother was passed out on the couch, with bruises covering every inch of her face. John was relieved to see her breathing.

"Who the fuck gave you permission to leave?!" His father yelled, suddenly. "And what did you tell the police?"

"Nothing, I swear!" John cried, glad that he was being honest. "They were all preoccupied with something else. I wouldn't have even gotten the chance."

John's father looked relieved, but wasn't fuming any less. He glanced at the brochure still in his hand. "Well, you're going to this school!" He yelled.

"Dad, no-"

"Don't you talk back to me! Think you can just go wherever the hell you want, whenever you want? We'll see about that. It says here they start in week, and you can bet your arse you're going!"

"Please Dad, it sounds like a prison! Don't send me there, I'll do anything-"

His father threw a punch that knocked John to the floor, then gave him a savage kick to his ribs. "WHAT DID I JUST SAY-" he gave another kick "ABOUT TALKING-" kick "BACK-" kick "TO ME?!"

John screamed and groaned in pain, finally releasing the damned tears he had been holding back all night.

"You're going to this school! And that's FINAL!" His father finished off his ranting with a final kick, this time to John's face, before storming out of the room.

John lay on the floor for a long time afterward, sobbing. Not really because of the horrendous pain he felt in his face and abdomen, or because he actually regretted not telling the police about his family at this point, or even because he was being sent to a school that would surely ruin his chances of getting into Cambridge.

No, John cried because he had no one to hold him through the pain of all of these things, to comfort him on the worst night of his life. He was completely alone.

 


	2. Idiot

What John didn't know, however, was that he wasn't as alone as he thought. He had no idea that, on the opposite side of the city, another boy his age was also experiencing the worst night of his life.

At around the same time that John Watson slipped out his front door with a duffle bag on his shoulder and no particular destination in mind, Sherlock Holmes climbed out of his bedroom window with a small backpack and a very specific plan.

Sneaking out was easy enough for Sherlock, even though his bedroom was on the second floor. Graceful as a feline, he was quite good at jumping from high places, always managing to land on his feet. Heights didn't scare him; in fact, they thrilled him.

Sherlock landed with a soft thud on the grass and crouched there for a moment. He closed his eyes, mapping out the trip in his head before he started it. It was absolutely essential that he be back home by 1:17 in the morning (two hours and seven minutes from now) when Mycroft would wake up and notice him missing.

Sherlock didn't know if older brothers were naturally born with this irritating ability or what, but Mycroft always seemed to sense when Sherlock was "up to no good", even in the middle of the night. It was quite annoying, and extremely inconvenient.

All the same, Sherlock was one step ahead of his brother now. He had done a month's worth of experiments preparing for this night, and had discovered that the average amount of time he could be missing from his bed before Mycroft somehow detected it was two hours and twelve minutes. Sherlock knew that requiring himself to be home five minutes earlier than that would give him a buffer zone.

As the clever boy sat in the grass, mapping out his route, he couldn't help noticing the fierce pounding of his heart and his shortness of breath. _I'm feeling afraid_ , he realized. _I'm afraid of breaking the law._

Thankfully, however, the thought was fleeting. Sherlock scoffed at himself, mentally commanding his amygdala to stop this nonsense. This was for science. Emotions had no business here.

Once he finished planning his night practically down to the second, Sherlock Holmes set off to meet his drug dealer.

___________________________

Forty-seven minutes later, Sherlock stood outside the agreed-upon meeting place: an abandoned hospital parking lot in the shittiest part of Eastern London. Sherlock had tried to convince the bloke that this was possibly the most obvious meeting place in the history of drug deals, but was sent the response, "Do you want the drugs or not, prick?"

So there he stood, with over £1,000 in his bag, waiting for his guy to show up.

Suddenly, from behind him: "Woah, what the hell?"

He turned to find a tall, thin man with wild blond hair and an unshaven face, who looked to be in his forties. However, the man could've been in his twenties for all Sherlock knew. Drugs tend to age people.

The man was staring at the boy in shock. "Are you....?"

Sherlock nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes now let's get this over with. I don't have all night." He reached his hand out for the bag the man was holding, but he held it back, shaking his head.

"Richie didn't tell me this was for a kid! There's no way I'm doing this."

Wow, a criminal with standards. How _boring_.

Sherlock immediately threw the bag of money at the man's feet. "I assume this will change your mind."

As soon as the dealer observed the notes within, he loosened his grip on the bag of drugs and Sherlock snatched it. The man let him, preoccupied with counting the money.

Humans. They were so predictable. So easily swayed.

Sherlock checked his watch and was pleased to find that he was ahead of schedule. At this rate, he'd be able to start his experiment sooner than he thought, which would be brilliant, as he had quite a few other experiments on hold for this one.

Just as Sherlock was about to make his exit, a loud, familiar voice sounded from behind him.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

Damn it. There was only one person who ever used Sherlock's full name like that, and he was horrified to see him emerge from behind a nearby tree.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth. "How did you even know I'd be here?!" He was outraged and irritated, but he was also genuinely curious, as it became apparent that his brother had been lurking in the shadows the entire time. He must've gotten here even before Sherlock.

Mycroft smirked, but his eyes were hard with anger. "Same way you managed to find yourself a drug dealer. You have your homeless network, I have my own spies. But that's besides the point."

He shook his head in disappointment at his younger brother. "I can't believe you Sherlock! When I found out what you were up to, I was hoping you wouldn't actually go through with it. Once again, I managed to overestimate your level of conscience-"

"Oh, and you act like _you_ have a _conscience_ ," Sherlock spat, glaring at his brother with absolute hatred. "And anyway, what business is it of yours what I do?"

"It's completely my business when it's _drugs_! Honestly Sherlock, what do you hope to gain from this?" Mycroft was sounding more like their father by the second. Sherlock hated it.

"I'm not taking them, you moron! It's for an experiment-"

"An experiment in which _you take_ _them_!" The older boy shouted in outrage.

"Not all of them-"

"Don't lie to me, I've read your journal-"

"YOUVE BEEN GOING THROUGH MY STUFF?!"

Was he talking about his experiment journal or his _journal_ journal? Either way, Sherlock was going to kill him.

"We'll talk about this later, Sherlock. Right now we have to-" he stopped suddenly, staring at something behind Sherlock. The younger boy followed his brother's gaze to find the drug dealer, who still stood there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

_His hands in his pockets_.

"Run!" Mycroft yelled.

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice, for he had deduced in three seconds what Mycroft had deduced in two. However, it was too late for both of them.

"Freeze!" The 'drug dealer' yelled, pulling a gun out of his pants. "Put your hands in the air!"

Both boys did so immediately, and as they did they became aware of wailing sirens approaching.

"You two are under arrest on the suspicion of involvement in the buying and selling of illegal drugs. Anything you say can be used against you...."

The rest of the officer's words were drowned out as five patrol cars pulled into the abandoned hospital parking lot, sirens blaring.

Sherlock recognised many faces, and they all looked rather gleeful.

"You know these people," Mycroft muttered through the side of his mouth. "You help them solve crimes every other week. Can't you say something to get us out of this?"

Well, "help" was a rather strong word. If Sherlock was honest, he didn't so much "help" them as "give them advice they refused to listen to, constantly nag at them for not doing their job right, and send them frequent letters claiming that he alone could solve more crimes than the entire moronic police force, if they let him".

So instead, as a couple of the brutes roughly shoved handcuffs on his wrists, Sherlock resorted to his oldest excuse.

"You can't arrest me! I'm an innocent victim of my underdeveloped prefrontal cortex!"

Unfortunately, all it earned him were scornful laughs from the policemen and an eye roll from Mycroft, and both boys were shoved into a patrol car and driven to the station.

___________________________

They bickered all the way there.

"I hate you," said Mycroft, which Sherlock found so childish, considering his recent behavior, that he laughed.

"Not as much as I hate you," he replied, simply.

"You are such an _idiot_ , Sherlock," Mycroft growled. "How could you not notice you had a _fake_ drug dealer? Did you not see his shoes? His fingernails? God, the signs were everywhere. Your poor deduction skills disappoint me."

"Why is it all my fault?" Sherlock retorted, indignantly. "You were there, too!"

"Yes, but I was a bit preoccupied trying to protect my little brother."

"Well a hell of a good job you did. Look where we are now! Besides, how could _you_ not notice that he was calling for backup inside his pocket-"

"Need I remind you that I was the one who _did_ notice? If I hadn't been there, you'd be getting arrested all by yourself right now-"

"-And I'm sure we'd _both_ be happier!"

"....Good point."

As they pulled into the police station. Sherlock felt the need to say something that he'd been wanting to say for the entire ride there.

"Has it even occurred to you that you could tell them that you had nothing to do with any of this?" He whispered. "That you have written proof that it was all my idea? You'd be telling the truth, you know."

Mycroft said nothing, and avoided meeting Sherlock's eyes. A few seconds later, they were both yanked out of the car by different officers, and were escorted into the building.

___________________________

The boys were interrogated separately.

The entire process was incredibly boring for Sherlock, although he was a bit frustrated that no one seemed to believe he had just wanted the drugs for an experiment.

"An experiment?" One officer questioned with a raised eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, did this 'experiment' involve?"

"Well, I hypothesized that small dosages of certain stimulants would help me think more clearly-"

"-So you _were_ going to take the drugs?"

"Well, _obviously_. How else would I be able to test my own hypothesis?" God, were all police officers this hopelessly stupid?

Hours of this passed, and just as Sherlock thought that he would drop dead from overexposure to low intelligence, a secretary came in and announced that both boys were to be released immediately. Apparently, the police had managed to "negotiate" with their parents.

_Translation: they gave you a shitload of money to drop all charges_ , Sherlock thought.

And so, at nearly five in the morning, Mycroft and Sherlock were once again in the back of a police car together. Only this time, neither of them said a word.

When they arrived home, the officer insisted on accompanying the boys to their front door, claiming that a suspicious looking teenager had been found wandering their neighborhood mere hours earlier. When they reached their front porch, their mother flung open the door before the officer could ring the buzzer. Her eyes were red and puffy. Behind her stood their father, who looked down at both of them with pure rage.

"Boys!" Their mother exclaimed. For a few seconds, she didn't seem to know whether to hug them or smack them. Fortunately, she chose the former.

"Thank you for bringing them home," she said over their heads to the officer. Then, she passed them over to their father, who was a lot less glad to see them.

"You boys....are in so much trouble," he said in a freaky calm voice that made both Sherlock and Mycroft, ages fourteen and seventeen, nearly pass out from fear. "Do you realize how much money I lost because of you tonight? Not even counting the thousand pounds that _you-"_ he pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock, who gulped- " _stole_ from my bank account. How did you even know my information?"

Sherlock almost scoffed and said 'How about you try not making your password _password.'_ But Mycroft tapped him twice on the arm: their mutual signal for when someone was asking a rhetorical question and the other didn't realise it.

Sherlock stayed silent.

"I just don't know what to do with these boys anymore," their mother sobbed to the police officer, while their dad continued scolding them.

"I mean really," their dad was saying. "I expected this kind of behavior out of Sherlock, but _you_ Mycroft? You're supposed to be the responsible one!"

Sherlock thought that was a bit harsh. Sure, he snuck out a lot. And yes, his experiments and his overall cocky attitude tended to get him into trouble at school. But this was the first _illegal_ thing he'd ever done! Did his dad not remember the time Mycroft was almost expelled for hacking into the school computers? And what about the time he was caught making business deals with the Russian mafia? How dare his father call Mycroft the responsible one!

Sherlock waited for his brother to throw him under the bus, to tell their parents how he had nothing to do with the drugs, but he just pressed his lips together and took the scolding. Ugh, why wasn't Mycroft defending himself? It was really hard for Sherlock to hate him when he kept being a good brother.

"They've _both_ been difficult in the past," The boys' mother interjected. At least someone realized this. "I just don't understand it. They're both so intelligent. It's as if they're _trying_ to get into trouble!"

For a split second, Sherlock's and Mycroft's eyes met before quickly averting from each other, leaving both boys to wonder what exactly that meant.

"Kids these days have no respect for their parents," the officer said in a way that made it clear to anyone with the simplest deduction skills that this was a rehearsed speech. "However, if I may offer a solution...."

___________________________

Half an hour later, the police officer was gone and the Holmes household was in an uproar.

"A behavioral correction school??" Sherlock yelled in disbelief. "That's like a prison for teenagers! You're not honestly thinking about sending me there are you?"

"Well of course not!" His father replied. "We'll be sending you _and_ Mycroft."

"What?!" The older boy, who had been silently drifting off to sleep for a few minutes, now sat up straight in his chair. "You're joking."

But their parents' stone-serious faces made it perfectly clear that they were not joking. "No," said Mycroft. "No! You can't- I didn't even do anything! It was all Sherlock."

Ah, there it was. Sherlock knew his brother would sell him out sooner or later. At least he had had the courtesy not to do it at the police station, though.

"I don't care who did what tonight, you've _both_ got serious behavioral problems," their mother said. "Neither of you has a single friend at school, probably because of your horrid attitudes."

"And you think sending us to this place will help us make friends?!" Sherlock yelped in disbelief.

"No, we think this will help you boys learn how to be civil human beings," their mother said.

"And maybe also learn not to steal from your father's goddamn bank account," their father added from his desk. He was changing all of his passwords as they spoke.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh come on dad, that was one time. Would you get over it already?"

Everyone in the room gave him the look that said _Sherlock, it's time to shut up now._

So he did.

"Look," their mother said, signaling that their conversation was coming to an end. "Like it or not, you boys are going to Baskerville's. Our decision is final. Now go to bed, it's nearly six in the morning for gods sake."

The boys marched upstairs. As soon as they reached their landing, Mycroft shoved Sherlock to the floor.

"I hate you," he said, with a fury Sherlock had never heard from his brother before. "I fucking _hate_ you. I should've sold you out to the police when I had the chance. Now, my last year before university is ruined, because I had to try to protect you. I had to fucking _care."_

_"_ Well, aren't you the one who always taught me not to care?" Sherlock said from the floor, knowing that if he got up he would just be pushed back down. "You should really follow your own advice."

Mycroft just shook his head at him. "Why must I be related to someone so unbearably stupid? I wish you were never born."

Then he went straight to his room and slammed the door, leaving his brother on the floor in shock.

No. Sherlock couldn't let this happen.

He couldn't let him have the last word.

He jumped up and banged on his brother's bedroom door. "Mycroft! Mycroft! Mycroft, open up! Mycroft! Mycroft!"

The door swung open. "WHAT?"

Pause.

"Fuck you," Sherlock said before running to his own room and slamming the door.

 


	3. Roommates

One Week Later  
_____________

John's father spent the entire three hour drive to Baskerville's yelling at him.

First, he ranted and raved about how he always knew John would be arrested one day, that he was just "that kind of boy".

He then continued to tell John what a huge disappointment he had always been, how he wasn't good at anything, and how a loser like him would never become a doctor.

Finally, as they neared the boarding school (much to John's delight at this point), he gave John some last minute reminders.

"You better not get into any trouble while you're here," he growled. "If I receive one phone call saying you've been anything but a model student, don't bother coming home for Christmas."

 _Wasn't planning on it anyway_ , John thought. "Yes sir," he said.

"I expect you to be on the football team, and to make perfect marks in every class,"

"Yes sir."

There were more rules and expectations, but John stopped listening at that point. He simply stared out the window at the changing scenery, inserting a "yes sir" whenever his dad paused.

The town of Baskerville was much smaller and more suburban than London, with few tall buildings and lots of open space. In fact, the largest building seemed to be the boarding school itself, which John could now see clearly.

According to the brochure, the school was only four years old, and still looked quite modern. It didn't have the worn look of faded brick that John's old public school possessed. But to John, the brand-new, freshly painted look made the school seem all the more intimidating.

The building seemed to be an impossibly perfect 3-D rectangle, with clear-cut sides and sharp corners. The evenly spaced windows that covered the front were tinted, but the reflection of the sunlight off the glass made them appear as a million square eyes. With the huge front doors opened like an eager mouth, the school resembled a monster. It looked just like the prison John had anticipated it to be, complete with a gate around its perimeter. All it was missing was barbed wire.

John's father pulled the car up to the curb and parked it in front of a fire hydrant. Then he said something, but John didn't hear him. He had caught sight of his reflection in the windshield, reminding him that he would be starting at a new school with a black and yellow bruise covering half of his face, to match the one that extended across half his torso. At least the larger one was hidden underneath his shirt.

"Well?" Oh shit, his father had said something, hadn't he?

"W-well what?" John stammered, revealing that he hadn't been listening.

His father smacked him in the back of the head. "I said, are you going to get the hell out of my car or do I have to drag you out by your ears?!"

John quickly exited the car, racing to the back to grab his trunk before his dad could drive off with it.

The very second John had retrieved his stuff and closed up the back, his father peeled out, tires screeching, at twice the speed limit. John watched the car until it disappeared around a corner, hoping karma would take effect and his dad would get pulled over by a nearby cop.

He wasn't.

John sighed and lugged his trunk into the building, bracing himself for whatever further misfortune awaited him.

___________________________

The inside of the school was even more pristine and immaculate than the outside, which John hadn't previously thought possible. The shiny, marble floor was made up of a distinctive black and white pattern, which continued down every hallway extending from the entrance.

There was no graffiti. No signs of vandalism, or even the general wear and tear that can normally be expected from a school. There didn't even appear to be dust.

John followed the growing crowd of students to the main attraction in the entryway, which was a long table with three faculty members taking names behind it. He waited in line for the next available space.

"Last name?" The large woman behind the table asked when John reached the front.

"Watson."

She checked something off on a piece of paper, then handed him a key.

"The room number is 221 B," she said in her bored, nasally voice. "Your roommate should already be in there."

"Okay....Er, where can I find that room, exactly?"

The lady looked at him and raised her eyebrows over her thick glasses. "The first 2 means it's on the second floor. A's are on the right, B's on the left. Other than that, the numbers go in order. I'm sure you know how to count. At least, I hope so."

John blushed and mumbled a thank you. Great. He hadn't been at this school for five minutes and he'd already embarrassed himself. He could hardly wait to see what the rest of his day would be like.

___________________________

Sherlock was very pleased that he had arrived at the school before his roommate, as it allowed him first choice in his side of the room. He chose the side closest to the window so that he could smoke, which was the first thing he did there, even before he unpacked his things.

That morning's long car ride had been depressing and awkward for everyone. His father was still traumatized from the amount of money he had lost the previous week, and refused to speak to anyone. His mother had tried to make small talk, but both Mycroft and Sherlock were ignoring her out of anger. Just as they were ignoring each other.

The moment the boys were dropped off in front of the school, Mycroft had split off from his little brother without a single word. Sherlock was fairly certain that Mycroft would never speak to him again, if he could help it. That he would do everything in his power to avoid him for the entire school year, and then graduate and move somewhere far away. That he would never return, never call home, and go to his grave believing that Sherlock had ruined his life.

Not that Sherlock cared or anything.

As the boy sat by the window sill, taking drags from his cigarette, he wondered what his time at this new school would be like, and how long it would take others to decide that they hated him. It usually didn't take anyone more than a day. For whomever was misfortunate enough to be his roommate, it would probably take about five minutes.

Sherlock killed time until his roommate showed up by deducing the students filing through the front doors below him. It was amazing, the details he could pick up on, even from two stories high.

He focused on one rather large teen in particular, who was currently striding into the building. Sherlock could tell by his luggage that he was extremely poor, though the way he carried himself demonstrated that he was cruel and tried much too hard to be intimidating. He wasn't sent here for harming someone else, though. Anyone _that_ kid harmed would surely be severely injured or dead, causing the boy to be sent to an actual prison (for he looked to be at least seventeen) rather than a behavioral correction school. No, he was most likely sent here for thievery. Yes, the kid was definitely a thief. He had poor luggage, but he had a lot of it, suggesting that he was carrying more items than he could possibly afford.

Sherlock deduced all of this in three seconds, which frustrated him, as he was working on decreasing his perception time down to two seconds. Three was just pitiful.

_"God, the signs were everywhere, Sherlock! Your poor deduction skills disappoint me."_

Sherlock shook the memory out of his head, and took the last drag from his cigarette before throwing the remaining fragment out the window and shutting it. He then proceeded to unpack his belongings.

The chore took him all of five minutes since, although his family was rich, he really didn't own many things. Sherlock was a firm believer in only valuing the useful things in life, which left no room for sentimental bullshit like posters and picture frames. Possibly the only exception was his violin, but even that was useful. Playing it helped him concentrate. He would've also brought his science equipment, but his mother had forbidden him. "You'll have no more need to preform these horrid experiments of yours at Baskerville's," his mother had insisted, before packing his entire chemistry set into a box. This left him with very few items to his name.

Once his luggage was unpacked, Sherlock flopped onto his bed with his violin and started absentmindedly plucking strings. This was what he was doing when the door opened, and in walked a short, blond boy with a bruised face, who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

___________________________

On the way to his dorm, John wondered what kind of roommate he would have. He found himself imagining all the worst possibilities, because with his luck, he was bound to have the worst possible roommate.

Wouldn't it be just perfect if the bloke turned out to be a complete psychopath who would end up murdering him in his sleep? John laughed at the thought, but grew increasingly nervous as he approached his room.

219....220....221.

Here he was. Nothing left to do now but open the door and see what he had to deal with. So he did.

And there was his roommate.

The boy lay against the headboard of the bed closest to the window, plucking strings on a violin, looking as if the entire universe bored him. He had dark curls that fell gracefully over high cheekbones, which were partially hidden by the collar of his long, dark grey coat.

He glanced up at John when he entered, his expression of boredom seemingly permanent, his facial muscles unchanging. Except, John noticed, for his eyes. They seemed to dart around constantly in the tiniest incriments, his pupils dilating and contracting as if absorbing pieces of the environment. And when they looked at John, he almost felt as if _he_ was being absorbed.

"Er, hi," John said, ignoring his feelings of discomfort that increased the longer the boy looked at him. "I'm John Watson, and uhh....I guess I'm your roommate."

John cringed at his own awkward introduction. It was just really hard to think straight when someone's eyes were practically boring into you.

Silence. "And you are?" John asked, wanting desperately for this kid to talk, to stand up, to do anything but keep looking at him like that. It was unsettling. He was starting to feel violated.

Finally the boy set down his instrument and stood, straightening his coat as he did so. John noticed that the boy was over a head taller than him, and impossibly thin. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, and somehow his smooth baritone did not surprise John one bit. It just seemed to fit so well with the rest of him.

John just nodded. He didn't know what to say next, so he turned to open his trunk, wincing as he did so. He had been wincing all week long, in response to the tiniest movements, but it never hurt any less.

"John, you're an idiot."

John froze in the middle of unpacking his clothes and turned around. Sherlock was giving him a look that radiated a mixture of pity and condescension. "Excuse me?" John asked. What the hell was this kid's problem?

"You have severely bruised ribs. Yet, you continue to lift heavy objects and generally treat yourself like you aren't injured. Are you sure you want to be a doctor, John? Because the fact that you seem to lack the most basic knowledge makes me wonder how you could ever manage such a profession."

John blinked. "I-I just-I.... _what?!_ "

Sherlock turned to face him then, with a look that said _Are you seriously this stupid?_

When John managed to find the words, he asked, "How did you know about my ribs?" John actually thought he had been hiding it quite well so far, knowing that if he so much as winced in front of his father, he would suffer even more for it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, it's obvious. You're face is bruised, and the fact that you're holding your left arm about an inch outward from how it would naturally hang by your side leads me to believe that the entire left side of your torso is bruised as well. Both bruises are about a week old and were caused by your father after you tried to run away."

"How....how did you-?"

"From what I can deduce about your personality, it's unlikely that you were sent here for anything illegal, or even immoral. Given your obviously difficult home life, a runaway attempt is the most plausible remaining option."

John knew he should probably be creeped out, but he was honestly kind of impressed. "Wow. What else can you tell about me?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John wasn't reacting the way people usually did. "Well....it's obvious that you've been abused your entire life, since your own bruises don't seem to phase you. You're used to them. Your father is the primary abuser, but your mother sits by and let's it happen. She's an alcoholic. One of your parents is bound to be, since you obviously come from the poorer side of your town and you aren't well fed because most of your family's income is spent on alcohol. The normal assumption is that the father is the alcoholic, but no, those bruises are too well-aimed for a drunk man to have made. That leaves your mother. But that's not all is it? No, you also have a troubled sibling. Most likely an older sister-"

"Stop, stop!" John interrupted, and Sherlock believed that he had finally crossed the line. There was always a line with people, and Sherlock could never tell where it was, nor did he usually care. But instead of telling Sherlock to piss off, John said, "I can _maybe_ guess how you assumed the rest, but how can you possibly know that I have an older sister?"

Sherlock was confused. How could he not know? It was so obvious. "I know you have a sibling because if you didn't, you would've tried running away a lot sooner. I know she's a girl because brothers tend to be more protective of their sisters, but if she were younger than you then you _never_ would've tried to run away for fear that she would be hurt. Finally, I can assume that she's troubled (most likely on drugs) because it was your growing resentment towards her that finally convinced you to leave."

John stood there in disbelief for several seconds. "That's...."

Sherlock braced himself for the worst.

"....brilliant."

Wait....what?

"That's not what people usually say."

"Really?" Said John, looking genuinely surprised. "What do people usually say?"

Before Sherlock could answer, an announcement came on over the loudspeaker. It was the headmaster, welcoming everyone to Baskerville's and informing them that there would be a mandatory assembly that afternoon,but that classes wouldn't start until 8 am tomorrow.

"Wow, first day is a day off," said John. "I'm liking this school already."

His voice was so heavy with sarcasm, however, that Sherlock almost laughed. He didn't though. He didn't want John to start considering him a friend, or even a decent person. Just because this boy didn't seem as repulsed by first meeting him as most people did, did not mean that his opinion wouldn't change eventually. Anyway, Sherlock wasn't here to make friends. He was here to serve a prison sentence for his parents (and hopefully get into just enough trouble to keep himself from dying of boredom).

Neither boy said anything for a while, so John resumed unpacking his things, and Sherlock continued tuning his violin.

A moment later, however, John turned back to Sherlock. "Okay, one last thing," he said. "How did you know I want to be a doctor when I grow up?"

Sherlock scoffed at the boy, who was obviously expecting another long and complicated answer. "John, when you opened your trunk I saw three different books on human anatomy. I'm sure even someone with the mental capacity of a hedgehog could've made the same assumption."

Both boys once again resumed their tasks, being left to wonder in silence whether or not they liked the other.

___________________________

Meanwhile, in room 215 B, Mycroft Holmes stared intently at the letter he was writing and tried desperately to ignore his roommate, who was chattering away as if he believe Mycroft to be listening.

"I'm so glad this is my last year. I've literally been going here since the year this school was built! I hate it," Lestrade complained. Mycroft knew his last name, but he couldn't quite recall his first. He was about 89% sure it was Gavin. Whatever his name, Mycroft wished he would shut up. He was working on something that required his full attention, and did not care for distractions.

"I mean, I thought i'd get out of coming back this year, but my dad's being a total dick," Gavin continued. "He says that sending me away has been the best thing for the entire family. And the worst part is that I never even did anything wrong! I don't deserve to be in here. My father claims that I'm 'disrespectful' which is a load of bullshit. He's just pissed that I don't want to be a stupid police chief, like him. I want to be something better! I-"

Mycroft couldn't take it anymore. He looked up from his work and at the muscular, brown haired boy across the room, who was pacing back and forth as he ranted. "You know Gavin, as much I've thoroughly enjoyed hearing about your daddy issues for the past ten minutes, I would like it very much if you'd shut the hell up now. In case you didn't notice, I'm busy."

Gavin stared at Mycroft, and looked for a second like he would snap back at him. But then, to Mycroft's surprise, he sighed and nodded.

"You're right," he said, rubbing his neck in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. You hardly know me, and I've been unloading all my crap on you. It's just that....sorry. I-I'll shut up now. But by the way, my name is-"

"Good," Mycroft said, going back to his letter. He was almost finished with it, but he couldn't remember how to write _mutually assured destruction_ in Korean. Frustrated with himself, he moved to consult his dictionary, only to find Gavin standing right by his desk, attempting to read over his shoulder.

"Woah, how the hell did you learn how to write in Chinese?!" The boy asked, his voice full of awe.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't bother correcting him. The funny thing was that Mycroft knew twenty different languages, but Mandarin Chinese was not one of them. That one was Sherlock's.

Mycroft still remembered that day in early primary school, when he and his brother decided that the two of them were going to master every single language in the world together (not anticipating at the time how impossible that would be). Since the Asian languages were so difficult for them, the boys decided to split them up. Sherlock got Mandarin, Hindi and most of the western Asian languages, while Mycroft chose Japanese, Korean, and most of the eastern ones. He also chose Russian, but both boys ended up learning that one.

Mycroft pushed away the stupid memory and continued flipping through his book of advanced Korean syntax.

"Oh, it's Korean," Gavin remarked, noticing the book. "All those Asian languages look the same to me."

Mycroft continued to ignore his roommate.

"What are you writing that for anyway? What does it all say?"

For God's sake, could this kid not take a hint?

"I'm afraid that's classified information, Gavin," Mycroft replied, hoping it would shut him up. Of course, it didn't. The boy just laughed, causing Mycroft to raise an eyebrow. Did he think he was joking?

"Come on, Myc, what's it say?"

 _Myc?_ No one had called him that since he was twelve, and had threatened to rip out the tongue of anyone who used that nickname any longer. "My name is not _Myc_ ," he said with disgust.

"Well my name isn't Gavin," the boy replied, matter-of-factly. "It's Greg."

Oh.

"Well _Greg_ , if you must know, I'm writing a letter to the current leader of North Korea regarding his request for nuclear weapons. The fate of the world kind of depends on it, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it."

Greg's eyes widened, but then he chuckled nervously. "You're still joking, right?"

"On the contrary, I have not told one joke for the duration of this useless conversation."

"Oh, please!" Greg strode back over to his side of the room and flopped onto his bed with a sports magazine. "Why on earth would a Korean dictator write to a random teenager in England asking for nukes?"

 _Because I may or may not infiltrate terrorist organizations when I'm bored._ "I'm afraid that's classified information."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Do you realise how insane you sound right now? What, are you in the secret service or something?"

"I'm afraid that's-"

"Yeah yeah, I get it. Shit's classified." Greg chuckled once more, and resumed reading his magazine.

The fact that Greg seemed to think Mycroft was crazy shouldn't have irked him, but for some reason it did. He found himself actually caring what the boy thought of him, which annoyed him even more.

What was with all these emotions all of a sudden? Maybe he was still frustrated about his fight with Sherlock, and his predisposed annoyance was making him more easily irritated in situations that he normally wouldn't care about. Yes, that was probably it.

Mycroft would never admit this, but he hated fighting with his brother. Even now, when he felt that he had a legitimate reason to be angry, Mycroft hated this fight. Not enough that he would do something ludicrous like _apologize_ , of course, but it still bothered him. And he did regret what he had said to Sherlock the other night.

Mycroft knew his brother very well. He was extremely clever, even more so than Mycroft in some areas, but he was also extremely sensitive. Sherlock cared about much more than he would ever allow even himself to believe. Consequentially, he tended to let certain things to make him upset, and always found ways to punish himself for it. Whether it was by not eating or not sleeping, or even harming himself "for experiments", an upset Sherlock was dangerous, and it was Mycroft's job to protect him from himself.

He groaned, putting his head in his hands. There were certain times when Mycroft wished that he could un-genius both Sherlock and himself. He knew that most of their major problems would disappear if they became just as stupid as the rest of the world, particularly whatever made it difficult for them to deal with emotions. That was why Mycroft had always taught Sherlock not to care; things were just easier that way.

" _You should really follow your own advice."_ Sherlock had said to him that night.

But Mycroft couldn't. Because there was one person in this world that Mycroft cared about very much, and that was his little brother Sherlock.

"Hey," the voice of his roommate interrupted his thoughts, and Mycroft raised his head. "It's almost time for that mandatory assembly. You ready to go?"

"I'm not going," Mycroft replied, curtly.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You do know what mandatory means, right? You have to go."

Mycroft actually snorted. "So? What are they going to do if I don't, expel me? Ooh, I'm shaking in my trousers. If you're so concerned, you go. Just leave me be."

Greg looked like he wanted to protest further, but apparently decided against it, because he just shrugged and left.

Mycroft was glad when he was gone. That Greg Lestrade was truly one of the dumbest, most distracting people he's ever had the misfortune of meeting. He wondered if there was any way he could request a new room, by himself.

After Mycroft finished his letter, he walked over to the window and tapped on it twice, then three more times.

Two stories down, a man dressed in camouflage to blend in with the bushes revealed himself. Then, after triple checking to make sure the coast was clear, Mycroft dropped the letter out the window and the man caught it. He then gave the teen a brief salute before racing off to his next destination.

Mycroft shut the window and sighed, collapsing onto his bed. _That's it, Mycroft_ , he told himself, _that's the last underground business you're going to participate in while you're at this school. No more foreign affairs. No more trouble. That was the last time._

"No it wasn't," he said aloud. There was no point lying to himself

Then, realizing that he hadn't slept properly in over a week, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off to be free from his own mind.

 


	4. First Day

John was awakened early the next morning not at 7, but at 4:30 am; and not by the sound of his alarm, but by the smooth, bold melody of a violin.

The first thing John noticed was that it was possibly the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. The way the bow seemed to gently kiss the strings, producing long, silky notes was perfection, and might've lulled John back to sleep....had it not been so terribly loud.

The second thing he noticed was that it was still dark out, and he was still extremely tired. Had it been later in the day, or earlier that night, or basically _any_ time but the wee hours of the morning, John might've sat back and enjoyed the beautiful sound. But at four-fucking-thirty in the morning, he wished he had a rock to throw at his roommate.

He settled for a pillow, which hit Sherlock square in the violin-playing arm.

"Aah! What the hell John? Do you mind?"

John sat up and turned on his lamp, hardly able to believe his ears. "Do _I_ mind?! What about you?! _Do you know what time it is???!!"_

Sherlock moved to check the clock by his bed. "It appears to be....4:32 in the morning. Why, do you have an appointment or something?"

John sputtered in anger and disbelief. "I- you- how can....do you even-ugh!" Unable to form a proper sentence, John just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued playing his violin. Until about ten seconds later.

BANG BANG BANG. The sound of an angry fist beating on their door made both boys jump, Sherlock nearly dropping his instrument. "OI! KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF, WOULD YOU? PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"

Sherlock just scoffed, and was about to continue playing when John marched over to his side of the room and yanked the violin out if his hands. " _Enough_ ," he said, firmly.

Sherlock groaned loudly. This John Watson kid was as bad as his parents. He assumed the next thing he would do was lecture him about the concept of "having consideration for others".

But instead, John set the instrument down and sat on Sherlock's bed. "What's the matter with you?" He asked, sounding more concerned than annoyed. "Can't sleep or something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. If I _could_ sleep, I'd be sleeping."

"Okay," John replied, ignoring his roommate's condescending tone. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Bored."

"It's four-thirty in the morning. Why are you bored?"

"I......"

Sherlock paused. It was one of the first times in his life when he was at a loss for words. No one- literally no one- had ever asked him this many 'why' questions before (unless it was "why are you so horrible?!"). Nobody ever seemed to care _why_ he could never sleep, or _why_ he was constantly bored. It had always been " _Sherlock, stop playing the violin at four a.m.!"_ or " _Sherlock, stop sneaking down to the police station and annoying the nice officers!"_ or _"Sherlock, stop stealing from our bank account and using the money to buy cocaine_!"

Nobody ever asked why.

"Because...." He began, wondering how he could phrase his answer without sounding insane- and then wondering why he suddenly cared what someone else thought.

"Life is boring," he finally said. "People and classes and the whole goddamn world. It's all so mundane and repetitive, and my brain is-" he stopped suddenly. What the hell was he doing? He had just met this boy yesterday, and he was about to bare his goddamn soul to him? No way.

"You know what? Never mind." He almost growled, unable to believe that he had allowed himself to believe that someone cared about him. Even for a second. "Just go back to bed."

"Hang on now," John said, grabbing the boy's shoulder before he turned away. Sherlock froze at his touch. "I want to know. Besides, I'm already awake. Just tell me."

"It's not important," Sherlock replied, curtly. "I just get bored. What, you never get bored?"

"Not at four-thirty in the morning, I don't-"

"Oh for god's sake, will you quit obsessing over the time!" Sherlock snapped. "It's not even four thirty anymore! It's, like, six minutes past!"

For some reason, this made John laugh, which confused Sherlock even more. Why the bloody hell was this kid so nice? He had no logical reason to be, seeing as how he had obviously been bullied and abused his entire life. According to basic psychology, this should have made John a bitter, cruel bully himself. But somehow, it hadn't.

"Alright," John said, throwing his hands in the air, but still smiling. "If you insist, I'll leave you alone _."_

But suddenly, Sherlock wished he wouldn't. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself wanting to talk to him more. To find out more about his mysterious personality.

But he said nothing as John turned off his lamp and crawled back into bed. He just glanced at his violin, considering picking it up once more, but then deciding against it. It worked with boredom and thinking, but not with feelings. What exactly was he feeling, anyway?

Lacking the willpower to deduce himself at the moment, Sherlock just crawled back into bed himself and continued not sleeping.

___________________________

When John woke up to his actual alarm a few hours later, he found Sherlock dressed and lying on his bed, with his fingers steepled over his chin. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He looked to be in deep concentration.

 _Did he sleep at all last night?_ John wondered, but decided not to ask.

After he was dressed but before he headed down to breakfast, he tried to get Sherlock's attention. "Erm...I'm heading down to eat. You coming?"

The boy didn't answer. He appeared to be muttering to himself, completely lost in thought. John sighed. "Sherlock," he said a bit louder. Still nothing.

"Sherlock!"

The boy jumped and looked around frantically, as if unsure of where he was. He then glanced at John in surprise. "I thought you went back to bed."

"It's morning, Sherlock."

He looked out the window. "Oh," he said simply.

"I'm, uh....going down to breakfast. You coming?" John repeated, since he had clearly not heard him.

Sherlock stared at him, seeming confused. As if he had never been invited to join anyone anywhere before. John suddenly wondered if he had.

Then he shrugged. "Alright."

He followed John out the door, but somehow ended up leading the way. John thought it was strange how Sherlock seemed to know exactly how to get to the dining hall without making a single wrong turn, even though his first day here had been yesterday. But then again, there were a lot of strange things about this boy, and his strong sense if direction certainly wasn't the strangest.

At the dining hall, John grabbed a tray of food and then joined Sherlock at an empty table. "You're not going to eat?" John asked, noticing that Sherlock hadn't gotten anything.

The boy just shrugged.

"Come on, you've got to eat something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day-"

"I find it boring and overrated," Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes. "The ridiculous notion of it being the most important is nothing more than breakfast cereal propaganda."

John was about to argue this point when another boy dropped himself down into the seat across from him. Actually, 'boy' seemed like the wrong word to use for this monster of a teenager. He was huge and had a shaved head, dark circles under his eyes, and a scowl on his face.

"Someone told me that you two came out of room 221B," the boy growled at them in a tone that could make a grown man piss himself. John was about ready to do just that as those dark eyes bored into him. Amid his own panic, he recognized the voice as the one that had screamed at Sherlock the previous night.

When neither of them answered (John because he wasn't able, and Sherlock because he simply did not care) the monster boy continued. "I was just wondering which of you was the insufferable prick who decided to grace the entire floor with a fucking orchestra performance at four in the morning. I'd like to beat the living daylights out of you." He cracked his knuckles as he waited for an answer.

"I-I um, I-" John stammered. The large teen, maybe three or four times his size, was staring down at him as several bullies had done before. Being short, poor, and assumed gay by everyone, John had been beat up quite a bit at his old school. Wishing to get a fresh start, he was not ready to make enemies on his first day someplace new. He wanted to go just one year without trouble.

"You going to answer me?" The terrifying teen asked. "Or do I have to kick the shit outta  _both_  of you?"

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed, much to John's disbelief. "You use your size for intimidation, but you've never fought anyone in your life."

The large boy narrowed his eyes, but John thought he saw a glimpse of panic in them. "You don't know me," he said. "You don't know why I was sent here-"

"Petty theft," Sherlock interrupted. "You're an undiagnosed kleptomaniac with dead parents and no friends. You were sent here by your grandparents who thought this place would help you learn to control your thievery. Little do they know you also suffer from a deeply rooted psychological need for control, possibly contributing to your stealing impulse as well as to your desire for threatening people and making them scared of you. However, you would never actually hurt anyone, mainly because of your fear of failure, and I suggest you quit wasting your breath by trying to convince me otherwise."

John stared at Sherlock in awe, and the large boy looked for a second- unbelievably- like he was about to cry. Instead, he grabbed John's tray of food and dumped it on Sherlock's head before racing out of the dining hall.

Several surrounding students were unable to believe the sight: a humongous bully running away in tears from two scrawny losers who hadn't thrown a single punch.

Sherlock sighed as he pulled scrambled eggs from out of his dark curls, not even bothering to go to the bathroom. He acted as if it was a normal, if slightly annoying occurrence to have school breakfast in his hair.

"How...how do you do that?" John asked, his voice full of amazement.

"Do what?"

"You know what. Figure out things about people like that, just by looking at them."

"....Oh." Sherlock had actually assumed John was asking him how he managed to be such an annoying prick, which he had been asked countless times by a variety of different people. "It's really quite easy, actually. It's just simple deduction-" Sherlock stopped with the realization that he was being modest, something he had probably never been before in his life.

"Well I think it's brilliant," John said with a huge grin.

Sherlock felt himself flush with pride, but tried his best to hide it. "I made most of those deductions yesterday when I saw him out the window. It also helps that bullies are quite possibly the most predictable people on the planet."

John chuckled. "If you say so. Hey, don't you want to go wash that stuff out of your hair?"

But before Sherlock could answer, the first bell rang. He left the table with John, pausing only to dunk his hair under the water fountain really quick. Then, both boys consulted their schedules.

"Oh neat, we have chemistry together first class," John remarked excitedly. The taller boy just nodded, still unable to believe that he had met someone who seemed excited to be around him.

They shared a smile before heading off to class together.

___________________________

Having skipped breakfast that morning, Mycroft had missed the episode that had occurred with the bully and his younger brother. However, it wasn't hard to deduce once he walked into chemistry and saw Sherlock's damp hair and slightly flushed face.

"Getting into trouble this soon in the school year, Sherlock?" Mycroft remarked to him, taking a seat behind and to the right of his brother, so that they were diagonal (the better to keep an eye on him).

"I thought you weren't speaking to me." Sherlock muttered without turning around. The short blond boy to his left did turn, however.

"I assume we'll have to speak eventually, seeing as how we're in the same chemistry class."

"And how the hell did that happen?" Sherlock was indignant. "You're three years above me."

"Every class here is remedial, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, obviously angry about this as well. "They don't offer Advanced Physics."

"I'm sorry," the blond boy spoke up. "Who are you?"

"John, this is my arch nemesis, Mycroft," Sherlock responded, glaring at his brother.

Mycroft nodded to John. "Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you."

This was a lie. He was never pleased to meet anyone. Mycroft hated people.

"Holmes?" John's eyes darted back and forth between the two brothers. "So you two are-"

"Unfortunately," they both said simultaneously.

It was at that moment that the second bell rang and the burly teacher walked in. "Good morning class," his voice boomed, silencing those still talking. "I am Mr. Dixon. We're going to get started right away, but first I want to make one thing clear."

He stood right in front of his desk and scanned the room, managing to meet the eye of every single student with his hard gaze. "You were all sent to this school for a reason. You are all ungrateful, uneducated, disrespecting little creeps who think themselves to be above the law. That's why your parents sent you here. And you know what? I don't give a damn whether this school fixes you or not. I still get my paycheck.

"However," he paused to meet the eyes of some of the students who looked especially troublesome. "I hope you know that I do _not_ tolerate any funny business in my classroom. I don't care what you get away with anywhere else, it will not fly in here. No warnings. No second chances. Understood?"

Nobody answered. Mycroft could tell that he was one of those teachers who never asked a question that wasn't rhetorical. He didn't care what anyone else thought, ever.

"Good," Mr. Dixon nodded in approval. "Now, open your textbooks to page 394-" he began, turning towards the blackboard, only to be hit in the back of the head with a ball of paper the moment he did so. "Hey!" He yelled, turning back immediately. "Who threw that?!"

Sherlock joined the other students in looking around the room for the culprit, although both Mycroft and John had seen him do it.

Mycroft smirked, despite himself. He hadn't been in a class with his younger brother since that year in primary school when everyone had to learn the recorder (which had taken both boys about sixty seconds). He had forgotten how much Sherlock enjoyed disrespecting teachers. It was really quite entertaining.

When no one could answer Mr. Dixon's question, he just sneered. "If that ever happens again, the whole class gets detention!" He yelled before turning back to the blackboard.

Sherlock reached for something else to throw but John stopped him. "No."

"But John, I'm bored," the tall boy whispered.

"No, Sherlock."

The rest of the period passed by uneventfully.

___________________________

Sherlock had four classes with John: chemistry, English, maths, and Behavioral Correction. That last one- a required class that was supposed to teach every student how to "be a better person"- sounded like the most boring thing in the known universe to Sherlock. He was glad to have John to keep him company.

The "classroom" looked more like a lounge room than anything else, only there weren't any chairs. Just several cushions set up in a circle on the floor. Their teacher, a young blonde woman named Miss Sandy, sat in the middle of the circle, appearing to be dressed for yoga. Sherlock hoped to god that wasn't what they were doing.

"Good afternoon, students," Miss Sandy spoke in a soft voice as John, Sherlock, and various young lawbreakers sat on the floor around her. "Welcome to behavior correction class. I look forward to working with all of you" She smiled around the room at everyone, but it looked extremely forced. Sherlock noticed her left eye twitch. "Throughout the year, we will work on building character and self confidence, practicing restraint and kindness, and enriching your....wonderful personalities."

 _I may vomit_ , Sherlock thought, unable to refrain from deducing the woman. Bitter, divorced, and possibly the phoniest person he had ever laid eyes on. _Ah well. She's so full of shit, it'll be easy to ignore her. At least this isn't a yoga class._

"We're going to start off with some breathing exercises. Everyone close your eyes."

 _Oh, what fresh hell is this?_ Sherlock glanced over at John and was pleased to see his look of revulsion. He didn't like this anymore than Sherlock did.

Unbelievabley, they were the only two who didn't follow Miss Sandy's instructions, though. Sherlock was disappointed at the compliance of most of the teenagers in this place. Where was everyone's rebellious spirit?

"Take a deep breath in," Miss Sandy commanded. "One...two...three. And let it out. Feel all the stress just drift away...."

Sherlock mimed throwing up into his lap, and John had to suppress a giggle. Then, Sherlock motioned to the open door. _Let's get out of here_ , he mouthed.

John glanced around the circle nervously, but everyone was still breathing deeply with their eyes closed. "Now imagine that you're lying on a beach," Miss Sandy was saying.

John grimaced and nodded at Sherlock. Together, the boys stood up from their cushions and silently creeped out the door.

They waited until they were a safe distance down the hall, and Miss Sandy's phony-soothing voice had faded out of earshot, to let out the breaths they were holding.

"Wow, what a load of crap," John remarked, chuckling. "They actually think that's supposed to fix behavioral problems?"

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock agreed. "That's a class I won't be attending again."

"Think we can get away with it?" John asked, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at the way he said "we". As if it was just implied that they would be ditching class together. As if they were, dare he think it, _friends_.

"Please," Sherlock responded. "Security here is a joke and the teachers here are all idiots."

"You seem to think that about everyone, though," John commented.

"Yeah, well practically everyone is."

John didn't respond, leaving Sherlock to wonder if he had just offended him.

They were mostly quiet until they reached their dorm, having left from their last class of the day. It was there that John broke the silence. "Hey, so I've been wondering....what exactly are you here for? I mean, it's fine if you don't want to answer, but you already know so much about me and....well, I don't know anything about you. Except that you tend to piss people off."

Sherlock smirked, but didn't answer his question right away. For a minute, he considered lying to John, or just not telling him. He didn't want his roommate and possible new friend to look at him differently. Normally he wouldn't care, but....this boy was different. For one thing, he had known Sherlock for over 24 hours and still didn't hate him, which was a new record. And for another, Sherlock actually enjoyed _his_ company as well, which was an even rarer occurrence.

Finally, he decided that if John was going to judge him, it would be better to end this friendship now. "I attempted to purchase several grams of cocaine through the black market, only to find out my drug dealer was an undercover cop."

Unexpectedly, John burst out laughing. "No, seriously Sherlock. What are you here for?"

Sherlock stared. "That _is_ the reason. Why do you not believe me?"

"Because what the hell would a fourteen year old genius want with cocaine?"

"It was for an _experiment_!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. "Why can nobody understand that?"

John shook his head, chuckling. "You....are one interesting person, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock paused. What was that? An insult? A compliment? If it was the latter, did that make them friends? How long were two people required to know each other before they became friends? He needed to ponder this further.

He sat back on his bed and arranged himself in his classic mind palace position, with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled just below his lips. But before he could begin to think-

"Hey Sherlock, do you-"

"Rule number one of living with me, John: do not speak to me when I'm in my mind palace," Sherlock stated without opening his eyes.

"Your what?"

"My mind palace, John, I'm quite sure I didn't stutter. If you're going to be an idiot, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the room."

The young genius then receded into the deep recesses of his mind, and John was left to wonder why the hell he liked this kid so much, seeing as how he could be kind of a dick.

But the fact was, he did like him. For whatever reason, John liked Sherlock a lot.

___________________________

Mycroft was pleased to discover that he had no more classes with his brother. He did, however, have two classes with Greg Lestrade: European History and French, in both of which Greg insisted on sitting next to Mycroft.

It annoyed the older Holmes boy immensely that Lestrade seemed to think being roommates automatically made them friends. He thought of voicing this complaint in third period history, when Lestrade's constant jabbering made it difficult for Mycroft to pretend to pay attention, but....something about the way Greg smiled when he talked to him, something Mycroft couldn't quite explain, made him reluctant to say anything that might hurt his feelings.

His last class of the day was French, a class that Mycroft had only signed up for because a foreign language was required for his grade level. Since he was already fluent in French, he decided that this would be the class where he would conduct important business....or maybe just let his mind drift off for awhile.

That is, until he saw Greg motioning him towards a seat in the back.

Mycroft sighed. _That's it. I will get nothing done in here, will I? So much for giving my mind a break._

"Hey Myc," Greg greeted him with a wink, receiving a glare from Mycroft. "Where were you at lunch?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Come on Myc, what were you doing?"

"Call me Myc again and I definitely won't tell you."

The boy ruffled his own brown hair, something he seemed to do when irritated. "Alright then My _croft_ ," he sighed. "Where were you?"

"I was emailing my secretary important information to send to my supervisor in Russia regarding our engagement in Hong Kong, that's all."

"Oh, that's all?" Greg questioned with raised eyebrows. "I thought it'd be something interesting." He chuckled at his own sarcasm as the teacher greeted the class in French, beginning their lesson.

At the end of the class, the teacher gave them all ten minutes to work   
on their homework, but Mycroft was already finished. He pulled out his phone.

"How are you finished already?" Greg whispered in frustration. "I cant even translate the first question-"

"Christ, Lestrade. It's simple conjugation," Mycroft replied without looking up from his screen. "Do you have trouble finding your way to the toilet at night, as well?"

"Oh, well _excuse_ me mister smart arse," Greg snapped. "Not all of us can be international spies, or whatever the hell you are."

Mycroft said nothing, completely absorbed in his phone.

Both boys were silent for awhile until Greg finally couldn't take it anymore. "Alright, what the bloody hell are you doing now?" He whispered angrily.

"It's crucial international business involving Afghanistan and nuclear weapons," Mycroft recited, still not looking up from his phone. "I'm currently in a heated texting debate with Osama Bin Laden, who is intent on killing American President Roosevelt and taking over the Western Hemisphere unless I supply Al Qaeda with nukes."

Greg's eyes widened. "Really???"

Mycroft sighed. "No Lestrade, I'm playing angry birds." He showed Greg his screen which indeed featured an angry birds level.

Greg blushed furiously. "Oh."

"Greg, you're an idiot."

"I know-"

"I was holding my phone sideways."

"...Some people text sideways."

"Also, there were several things wrong with that statement."

"Yes, I realise this now, thanks-"

"Roosevelt was several presidents ago and Bin Laden is dead-"

"Yeah, I get it Mycroft, I'm an idiot-"

"A complete and utter imbecile."

The bell rang then, and both boys stayed seated, glaring at each other. Three seconds later, they busted out laughing. They laughed so hard they fell out of their seats, and the French teacher glared at them until they left.

They continued laughing all the way to their room, when they had to pull themselves together because they were both too weak from laughter to unlock the door.

When they were finally in their room, Mycroft dried his eyes. "Oh dear lord, why was that so funny?"

Greg shrugged, still chuckling himself. "I don't know," he breathed, wiping away a tear. "I've never laughed at someone calling me an idiot before."

"You know something...." Mycroft came to a sudden realization. "I don't think I've ever really laughed before."

Greg looked shocked. "At all?"

"I'm sure I've sneered. Chuckled, maybe. But never laughed."

"Not even when you were a toddler?" Greg asked, skeptically.

"Oh, heavens no. I found peek-a-boo redundant and extremely tedious, and I told my father so."

"Yeah, that sounds like you," Greg smirked. "Hey, so can you help me with my French homework now?"

"Only if you can tell me who the _current_ president of America is."

"Hmm," Greg pondered the question. "Will I get credit for being in the right century? Because I'm, like, ninety-five percent sure it's Clinton."

Mycroft laughed out loud and passed Greg his French notes, forgetting for a moment that he had ever found the boy annoying.

 


	5. Friendship and Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N: Everything might seem a bit random now, but it is all relevant and will connect to the plot. You'll see :)*

"So, do you have a girlfriend?" John asked Sherlock the next day at breakfast, to start a conversation. John had noticed that his new friend wasn't much of a conversation starter, as he spent most of his time studying random people or otherwise just staring off into space in his "mind palace". There was a lot that John wondered about him, one being his relationship status.

Not for any reason, of course. Just curiosity.

"Not really my area," Sherlock responded, without elaboration.

"Oh...." John cleared his throat. "Do you, uh, do you have a boyfriend then?"

Sherlock stared at him, his smokey grey eyes doing the thing where they seemed to be absorbing him. John shifted in his seat.

"No," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm much too involved with my work to engage in ludicrous activities such as dating." John couldn't help but notice that he did not hear an 'I'm not gay.'

"Really?" John asked. "What work is this?"

"I solve cases."

"Cases?" John asked. "What, like crimes?"

"Exactly."

"Wow, that's interesting. Where do you find them?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He still wasn't entirely sure whether or not he could trust this boy, however much he enjoyed his company. He decided to take the risk. "I hacked into Scotland Yard's database of unsolved case files when I was ten. I've been solving those in my spare time ever since, anonymously sending them my results, but they never take them seriously."

John just stared at him in shock. "Other than that....I generally just wait around for something exciting to happen," Sherlock admitted.

"That is....wow."

John was in awe, and Sherlock just didn't understand. " _Why_ do you do that?" He blurted out, suddenly.

"Do what?"

"React like _that_ ," said Sherlock. "As if you don't think I'm a freak-"

"You're not a freak," John told him. "You're the most clever person I've ever met."

Sherlock was speechless, but didn't get a chance to respond before a large hand picked up John's tray of pancakes and sausage and dumped it over Sherlock's head.

Their bully was back.

"Hey! Why do you have to do that?!" John yelled, as Sherlock sighed and scraped the food out of his hair. _Pancakes. That's a first_.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the boy responded, sarcastically. "I just liked the way breakfast looked on you so much yesterday that I wanted to see it again." He shoved Sherlock off his chair and to the floor. "Prick."

"Leave him alone!" John demanded, standing up to....well, he wasn't really sure what he was going to do, but nobody pushed his friends around!

"It's alright, John," said Sherlock. "He'll leave once he feels that he's adequately asserted his dominance-"

"Quit using those fancy words!" The bully bellowed. "What, you think you're better than me? I can kick your arse, and I will!"

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock challenged confidently, as if he had not just been doused in breakfast by a boy three times his size.

Unexpectedly, the large kid grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar. Before either Sherlock or John could react, however, a loud voice rang out from across the room.

"Oi! Viktor!"

The bully looked up at the older, brown haired boy making his way toward them. "What's gotten into you, mate? Put that poor kid down!"

Surprisingly, the bully (who's name was apparently Viktor) obliged, dropping Sherlock back into his chair. Sherlock straightened the wrinkles out of his coat, glaring up at Viktor.

Their savior put his arm around the bully's shoulder (with some effort, since he was quite a bit shorter). "Now Viktor, we've talked about this," he said. "You can't be on the team if you keep getting into trouble, and I can't lose another good player. Now beat it before a teacher sees you."

Viktor mumbled a halfhearted apology before lumbering away.

"Sorry about him," the older boy said. "He's got quite a temper. I'm Greg, by the way. Greg Lestrade."

"Nice to meet you Graham," said Sherlock absentmindedly, still staring intently after Viktor. Greg opened his mouth to correct him, but John spoke first.

"Lestrade?" John said, remembering that name. "I've met your dad. He was the one who, well, arrested me."

"Did he?" Greg replied. "Well I apologise if he was a dick. I can assure you I'm not like him."

"Obviously," Sherlock interjected. "You strive to be exactly the opposite of your father, in fact. You spent your childhood-"

"Sherlock," John cut him off. "You've really got to stop doing that. That's kind of the reason you already have an enemy on the second day of school."

"Oh believe me, I have more than one," said Sherlock, almost proudly. "You should've heard me in history class yesterday."

Greg, meanwhile, was cocking his head at Sherlock in a curious way. "Are you by any chance familiar with Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock grimaced. "He's my brother," he responded with distaste.

"Yeah I would've guessed that. He's my roommate," Greg said with a smile. "Anyway, again, sorry about Viktor. I hope once football tryouts start he won't be so easily pissed off."

John suddenly remembered one of the things his father had demanded he do while at this school. "Hey, when do those start by the way?" He asked.

"Next week," Greg replied, eyeing John questionably. "No offense little guy, but are you sure you're interested? A lot of our players are pretty big, and you're....well."

"I know," John said, not at all offended. "My dad wants me to. He thinks being in a sport is a sign of manliness, or whatever. Bottom line, I've got no choice in the matter."

"I'm sorry," said Greg, sympathetically. "My dad's a controlling bastard too. "

The bell rang and Greg bid them farewell. "See you around, er..."

"Oh. Uh, John," John replied. "And this is Sherlock," he motioned to his friend who stood silently beside him.

"Right. Catch you later John and Sherlock," he waved at them as he headed off to class.

The two boys walked to chemistry, with Sherlock still picking bits of pancake out of his hair. "You're lucky I don't like syrup with those," John said, reaching over and running his fingers through Sherlock's curls in an effort to dislodge remaining crumbs.

As John's fingers brushed through his hair, Sherlock felt himself shudder involuntarily. He froze in the middle of the hallway. _What the bloody hell was that?_

"Sherlock?" John said, noticing that the boy had stopped. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock honestly wasn't sure. He had never felt anything like that before. What _was_ that? "Yes...yes I'm fine." He continued walking, extremely grateful that John hadn't seemed to notice Sherlock's involuntary response to his touch.

And indeed, John hadn't noticed, for he was too busy pondering the shudder that had run through his own body as he had run his hand through Sherlock's silky smooth curls.

___________________________

_No no no no no no._

That was all Mycroft could think as he typed furiously on his laptop, waiting for chemistry class to start. A few kids had given him strange looks, but he was quite used to these and was able to ignore them completely. It also helped that all of his attention was focused completely on the horrifying message his supervisor had just sent to him via coded email.

This can't be happening. Not here. He can't be here _,_ Mycroft panicked internally as he hammered back a response with less than his usual calm demeanor.

His boss had made it quite clear that Mycroft had no choice in the matter, that to refuse would be in violation of his contract, but Mycroft didn't care. To do this would not only be putting himself and half the students in this school in grave danger (this alone Mycroft could live with), but his little brother as well. And that's where he drew the line.

Just as he was ending the letter with a suggestion as to where exactly his boss could stick their contract, a familiar voice made him jump. "Christ, Mycroft what have you gotten yourself into now?"

Mycroft whirled around in his seat to find Sherlock and his clueless blond friend staring intently over his shoulder. Mycroft slammed his laptop shut, scowling at them. "That is no concern of yours," he said, trying to sound as his usual self, but was embarrassed to hear his voice shake.

"You don't sound very composed, brother," said Sherlock, looking both curious and amused. "Has that job of yours finally become more than you can handle?"

Mycroft's response was cut off by the sound of the late bell, so he just shot Sherlock a contemptuous glare, hiding his laptop under his desk before Mr. Dixon could see it and confiscate it.

Sherlock, meanwhile, took his seat and began to contemplate what little of Mycroft's letter he had been able to decipher, trying to figure out what, indeed, his brother had gotten himself into now.

"What was that about?" John whispered to him as Dixon began his lecture.

"As far as I can tell, he's been asked to do something he's not okay with, which is surprising when you consider that my brother has very few morals-"

"Yes, but what did you mean his _job_?" John asked.

"Oh, that....well, while he's never admitted to anything, I think it's fair to deduce from what I know that he's a member of a secret international intelligence agency," Sherlock responded, in a low voice.

"Um.... _what_?" John said, for he could think of nothing else.

"I know, and to think they turned _me_ down."

John was taken aback. "Really? That's bullshit. You're a bloody genius. Any secret agency would be lucky to have you."

"I know," said Sherlock. "But they said my 'maturity level needs work', which is complete and utter nonsense-"

"Excuse me, are you two quite finished talking back there?" Mr. Dixon said loudly, making John jump.

"Mind your business dickhead, we're having an important conversation," Sherlock said back, making the entire class- even Mycroft- burst out in laughter.

Dixon's face turned a frightening shade of purple. "Detention, BOTH of you!" He yelled, pointing fingers at Sherlock and John.

"Wait a minute, John didn't do anything-"

"BOTH OF YOU!" Dixon's booming voice silenced the last of the laughter. Sherlock stood up, preparing to argue John's innocence to the death.

"Sherlock it's okay, please just sit down," John begged, and it was his pleading voice combined with Dixon's murderous glare that made him comply.

The rest of the class passed without further disruption, and as soon as the bell rang, John and Sherlock were called up to the teacher's desk.

Mycroft lingered as well, dropping his notebook near where his brother was standing and taking his time to pick up the papers that scattered. He had a feeling he would be needed.

"Do you think it's funny to disrupt my class?" Dixon asked in a threatening tone, no doubt amusing Sherlock rather than intimidating him.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer this rhetorical question, but Mycroft quickly reached up and tapped Sherlock twice between the shoulder blades. He closed his mouth immediately.

"I didn't think so. In fact, I'll bet you feel really foolish now, don't you?"

Sherlock knew this question to be rhetorical without Mycroft's signal. 'Dont you?' questions usually were.

"Of course you do. I hope you both know that I have the power to make your lives a living hell, and think better about acting out in my class again. I'll expect you both back here after your classes this afternoon to do lines. Fail to show up, and it'll be something much worse. Disrespect me again, and it'll be something much worse. Got it?"

John nodded, but Sherlock, not sure if he was still being rhetorical or not, stayed silent. Mycroft sighed.

"What about you, smart arse?" Dixon asked, glaring at Sherlock. "Do _you_ get it?"

"Er, yes," Sherlock responded.

"Alright then. Now, get the hell out of my classroom."

___________________________

After the three boys left and went their separate ways, Mycroft returned to panicking about the job he had been asked to do. He was not unaware that he hadn't yet sent his angry reply before being forced to shut his laptop, but now he wasn't sure if he should. The consequences of breaking his contract would be detrimental to his future, and there really wasn't anything else he wanted to do in life.

Besides, it was going to be done whether he agreed to do it or not. And he had to agree, it made the most sense that Mycroft should do it. But the consequences of failing.... _the consequences of failing_.

"Well, then you better not fail," Mycroft muttered to himself, officially making up his mind.

As soon as he arrived to his next class, he opened up his laptop, erased the email he had been about to send, and typed up a new one:

 _Consider it done_.

He sent it.

___________________________

"So....lines. Is it just me, or do you feel like we got off too easy?"

Having skipped out on Behavioral Corrections the same way as they had yesterday, John and Sherlock had a whole hour to kill before their detention. Both boys sat on their individual beds: Sherlock flipping through one of John's anatomy textbooks while John doodled aimlessly on the corner of his unfinished maths homework.

"He wants to use this as an opportunity to learn who he's dealing with," Sherlock said in response to John's question, not looking up from a diagram of a skeleton that he was committing to memory. "He's giving us an easy task so he can talk to us simultaneously, probably to ask questions about our pasts."

"I guess that makes sense," said John. "But damn, after that big talk he gave us yesterday about what a hard arse he was going to be, this just seems suspiciously pitiful. I won't be surprised if he gives us a special pen that makes us write words in our own blood-"

"John, that is both impossible and ridiculous. Please tell me you're joking."

John looked up at Sherlock to see him staring intently at him, obviously judging his intelligence very harshly. "Sherlock, that was a reference. What, you've never read Harry Potter?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"Sherlock....please tell me you've at least _seen_ Harry Potter."

"I don't watch films or read books unless they have relevant information that I could possibly use in the future-"

"Christ Sherlock, _what was your childhood_?!" John exclaimed, incredulous. "Did you ever do anything fun?"

Sherlock opened his mouth.

" _Besides_ solving cases!"

"But solving cases is fun."

"Sure, but haven't you ever done anything else?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Well, there were a few years of carefree youth during which my brother and I attempted to learn all the languages in the world. That was fun....if you discount all the times we got beaten up for it."

"Oh," John said, not sure what else to say to that. He knew all too well what it was like to be beaten up often, only for him it was usually because he was poor.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?"

"What do you do for fun?"

"I read," John said without hesitation.

"Anything _besides_ children's novels?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock scoffed. "What a waste of time. They're so _boring_. So irrelevant. Is that all you ever did?"

It was John's turn to think for a moment. "I guess so. It's not like I ever had enough money for anything else. I would go to the library all the time as a kid, just to escape to house. Some Saturdays, I would wait outside it until it opened, and stay there until the moment they closed. I've always loved the library. That's where I discovered the Harry Potter series. I thought that whole, magical world was so wonderful, and reading it always helped me forget my life. I think I read all seven books five times each before the librarian just bought a new set and let me keep the old one. That was the happiest day of my life...."

Johns trailed off, blushing when he realized how much he had said without meaning to. Sherlock stared at him with intense fascination, his eyes absorbing him, but with a softness that John had never seen before.

"Do you have them with you?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"The books. Do you have them with you?"

"Y-yeah. Hold on." John dug around in his trunk for a bit until he found his well-read copy of The Philosopher's Stone. He stood up when he found it, and was surprised to find Sherlock right behind him, his hand outstretched. John stared right into his eyes as he handed him the book, mesmerized by how grey they were.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. As the book changed hands, their fingers grazed each other, and as John felt the same cold shudder from earlier pass through his body, he could've sworn- could he have imagined it?- that Sherlock's pupils dilated a fraction.

Then it was over. Sherlock accepted the book without a word, returned to his bed, and immediately started reading it.

John, meanwhile, returned to his maths worksheet, but did very little of it. He kept sneaking glances at Sherlock, who was progressing very quickly through the book, and wondering what it was about him....

The boys stayed like that until it was time for their detention.

___________________________

"Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft."

Somewhere in the back of his fiercely occupied mind, Mycroft vaguely registered his roommate's voice. However, he did not immediately comprehend it. He was far too busy staring out the window, wondering how the hell he was going to complete the task that he had already agreed to....

"MYCROFT!"

He snapped to attention, glancing over at Greg who was sitting at his desk, looking quite exasperated. "I've been trying to ask you something for, like, ten minutes!"

"Well, what do you want?" Mycroft asked irritably, eager to get back to his thinking.

"Did I do these right?" Greg replied sheepishly, holding up his French homework.

Sighing, Mycroft took Greg's paper and examined it. "Your syntax is atrocious."

"My what?"

" _Grammar_ , Lestrade. Your ability to arrange words into comprehensible sentences. Every question will need to be redone."

Greg looked horrified at the thought of starting over. "Alright, say I leave my, uh, _syntax_ the way it is. Will I at least get partial credit?"

Mycroft looked over his work, doing some quick calculations in his head. "You'll pass-"

"Yes!"

"-but barely."

"Don't care!" said Greg, still elated as he snatched back his worksheet and stuffed it quite roughly into his bag. "A pass is a pass!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the empty space he had been staring off into previously.

Greg, of course, now unoccupied, turned his attention to his favorite pastime of bugging Mycroft. He rolled his chair up by the window so he was right behind his roommate. "Hey Myc," He said with a smile. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information."

"Oh, come one," said Greg, exasperated. "Don't you ever share anything?"

"Rarely."

"Well that's not going to get you very far, is it?"

Mycroft ignored him, trying to think through his anxiety.

"What's the matter? You've seemed stressed all day. Maybe I can help."

Mycroft shook his head, still saying nothing.

"Okay," Greg stood up suddenly and started pacing, voicing his thoughts as he did so. "You obviously can't tell me what's up, but maybe I can figure it out. From what I've gathered, you're involved in some kind of secret stuff, right?"

"Fascinating deduction, Lestrade. You really should take up detective work."

"You know, I'm not as stupid as you think!" Greg snapped, surprising Mycroft by sounding angry for the first time. He ruffled his own hair, clearly irritated. "Sure, at first I thought you were joshing me with all this secret service stuff, but now I understand that it's probably real. No one just goes around writing letters in Korean and typing in secret code and....and wearing suits that effing nice!"

Mycroft glanced down at himself, unsure of what his suit had to do with his job.

Greg blushed and continued. "Look, I understand that there's probably some things that really are classified-"

"Most things are classified."

- _but_ ," Greg insisted. "You don't have to shut me out completely."

Mycroft considered this and immediately felt guilty about his snide remark. Greg really was just trying to help. While there was no way in hell Mycroft could tell him what he had been assigned to do, he didn't have to be a dick about it.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, the words feeling strange and foreign in his mouth. "I have been rather stressed today. There's something I have to do that I'm not sure....I can handle."

"Let me guess," said Greg, his voice light and humorous once again. "You have to assassinate someone?"

Mycroft froze. How....how did he...?

But Greg was laughing. "Yeah right, like they'd make a teenager do that. No, that can't be it."

Mycroft relaxed and laughed nervously. "You're not going to guess it, Lestrade, but thanks for trying."

"Whatever," said Greg, finally, Mycroft noted with relief, seeming exhausted of the conversation. He pulled a football out of his bag and started tossing it from one hand to the other, absentmindedly.

The boys were silent for a few moments until Greg spoke again. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I met your brother at breakfast this morning."

Mycroft whirled around, instantly intrigued. Both him and his brother shared a hatred for morning meals. "He goes to breakfast?"

"Yeah," said Greg. "I don't think he eats, though. He mostly just sits around with this blond kid named John, and apparently pisses people off for the fun of it. I caught one of my football players trying to strangle him this morning."

Mycroft's heart froze. "Did you, uh, did you stop him?" He asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

"'Course I did. Can't have my goalkeeper getting in trouble, can I?"

Mycroft felt relief, which quickly turned into fury. Why the hell did Sherlock insist on always making trouble for himself?! Would Mycroft have to start enlisting people to spy on him, just to make sure he stays safe?

"You know, you and your brother are a lot alike," Greg remarked.

"We most certainly are _not!"_ Mycroft snapped, embarrassed by his own childlike tone.

Greg laughed. "Sorry to break it to you mate, but it took me about twelve seconds to guess that he was your brother, and you two don't exactly look similar. It's the way you talk. Also, he seems to be under the impression that my name is Graham." Greg laughed again and resumed playing with his football.

Mycroft tried to return to his planning, but gave up after a couple minutes. Far too distracted at this point, he decided to give thinking a break, and settled instead for watching Greg as he threw the ball up into the air and caught it with impressive reflexes.

 


	6. Moriarty

John and Sherlock's detention was just as Sherlock had predicted it to be: The boys copied the sentence _I will keep my mouth shut while Mr. Dixon is talking_ , while Mr. Dixon himself paced the room and questioned them about why they were sent to Baskerville's.

They had quite a bit of fun with this, both of them claiming to have been arrested for brutally assaulting their previous chemistry teachers. John said he stabbed his in the neck with a pencil. Sherlock topped this with a frighteningly detailed story involving hydrochloric acid and it's effects on the human body.

Dixon ended up dismissing them both after a mere hour's work, looking quite unsettled in their presence. The boys returned to their room in fits of laughter, and Sherlock realised that just being with John Watson made him laugh more than he ever had before in his life.

__________________________

As the first month of the school year progressed, Sherlock kept waiting for the day when John Watson would grow tired of being around him, but that day never came. Even as Sherlock's reputation worsened with every person he pissed off, John remained by him loyally through every confrontation, most of which seemed to happen at breakfast.

Although their original bully, Viktor, did lay off them once football season began (John had nearly been laughed out of tryouts) many other students who hated Sherlock carried on the morning tradition of dumping John's breakfast on his head.

"Why don't you ever stand up for yourself?" John asked him after the fourth or fifth time this happened. John, as always, had tried to stop them but it always happened that the bullies were a lot bigger than he was.

Sherlock just shrugged, the way he always did to avoid questions he did not choose to answer. "I'm sorry you keep losing your breakfast because of me," he said simply.

John just smirked. "Who needs breakfast? Isn't it the most overrated meal of the day? Cereal propaganda and all that?"

Sherlock smiled back, despite himself.

John stopped buying breakfast after this, officially ending their bullies' favorite tradition. From then on the boys spent their mornings in their dorm, where Sherlock continued to read the Harry Potter books with fascination, and John downloaded the movies on his laptop so that they could watch them together once Sherlock finished the series.

By the last week of September, Sherlock was finally beginning to accept that this school year might be all right after all. Mycroft had gone back to avoiding him, most of the bullies had gotten bored of Sherlock's lack of reaction to their taunts, and he actually had a best friend who liked being around him. If the rest of the year stayed like this, he might've even been able to get used to the constant boredom.

Little did he know, things were about to get interesting.

__________________________

"Do you _ever_ eat, Sherlock?" John asked as the two boys sat down for lunch on a Saturday, at their usual table by the window. Or rather, John sat down for lunch while Sherlock simply sat down, once again without a tray.

"When it's convenient," the young genius replied.

"I'm serious, I don't think I've seen you eat one bite of food since I met you. I'm kind of concerned-"

"Don't be," Sherlock cut him off. One benefit of being away from home was that he no longer had Mummy breathing down his neck about his eating habits. He did not need a substitute mother. "I eat in private, when I need to, and no more. I don't need your _concern_ -"

"Well you're going to get it," John insisted. "Like it or not."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. He still wasn't used to being around someone who showed so much emotion, and who made _him_ show emotion. He was saved from having to respond, however, when he noticed sounds of commotion coming from out in the courtyard.

"Do you hear that?" He remarked.

"Hear what?"

"Shhh! Listen."

John did, and over the general sounds of talking and eating throughout the dining hall, he could just barely pick up yelling and scuffling from outside. There was something going on just out of view of the nearest window.

"Probably just people messing around," John guessed.

"Not in this heat. And those are shrieks of panic. Someone's being attacked," Sherlock's eyes lit up with excitement as he leaped up from the table to go investigate.

"Hang on!" John called, running out after him. "We don't know that-"

But Sherlock was already out the double doors that led outside and racing through the humidity, following the shrieks. He turned into the alley on the right of the building, and John followed to witness the same sight.

A small girl with brown hair and pale skin was cowering against the wall by the alley as two boys blocked her escape, laughing as she cried. One of the boys, to John's horror, was shoving his hand up her shirt. John recognized the girl from their chemistry class. Molly Hooper was her name.

"Hey!" John yelled. "What the hell are you doing to her?" But Sherlock was already halfway over there.

The boys backed away from Molly, and John suddenly noticed that one of them- the shorter boy with the suit and the dark, slicked back hair- seemed eerily familiar. The blond boy who was molesting Molly, however, was a stranger.

Sherlock did not stop when he was a few feet from the pair. Instead, he marched straight up to the blond boy, grabbed him by the shirt, and punched him square in the nose. The boy cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground, his face gushing blood. Sherlock ignored him, extending a hand down to Molly, which she gratefully took. He let go the second she was standing, however, turning to the suited boy.

"I know you," Sherlock said with narrowed eyes. "Why do I know you?"

The boy gave a sideways smile that made John shiver. "Deduce me," he said simply. "It shouldn't take the great Sherlock Holmes very long."

John wasn't sure what was going on, so he went over to check on Molly. She was straightening her shirt, still incredibly shaken. "Are you okay?" He asked. She just nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.

John had no sooner turned back to the boys than Sherlock's eyes lit up with clarity. "Jim Moriarty," he said suddenly.

The boy smiled wide. "Hi," he responded in a sing-song voice.

It was then that it clicked for John as well. That boy's name and face had been all over the news two years ago. And he remembered why. The pictures had been painful to look at.

"That took you about 4.3 seconds, by the way," Moriarty commented after glancing at his pocket watch. "Are you having an off day, Sherlock?"

There was a pregnant pause, during which Moriarty calmly checked on his fallen comrade. "Perfectly aimed punch," he whispered, seemingly impressed as he examined the boy's nose.

John wasn't sure what he had expected Sherlock to do, but it certainly wasn't what he did: He turned with a quick swish of his long coat, grabbed John and Molly by the arms, and pulled them back through the doors leaving Moriarty and the bleeding boy behind them.

They didn't stop at their lunch table. Sherlock led them both out of the dining hall and up the stairs.

"Sherlock, where are we going?"

"We need to talk. Privately."

When they reached the second floor and turned left, Molly suddenly jerked away. "I can't be here," she said. "It's the boys' wing-"

"Oh, grow up," Sherlock interrupted, grabbing hold of her again and pulling them to dorm 221B.

Once they were inside, John and Sherlock immediately started talking.

"Sherlock, was that-"

"Yes."

"The one who-"

"Yes it was."

"Christ-"

"I know."

"Hey!" Molly interrupted. "What are you two talking about? _I_ don't even know who they were. I was just minding my own business when they-" she cut herself off with a shudder.

"Hey, speaking of which, what were you doing out there?" John wondered. "There's no way you were just sitting around out there in this humidity."

Molly blushed, but Sherlock answered for her. "Molly has suffered from anxiety attacks ever since she arrived at this school, where she clearly doesn't belong. Every time she goes to lunch and realizes that she's a loser with no one to sit with, she has to step outside for some fresh air to keep herself from crying. That's when those two found her-"

"Have you been _spying_ on me or something?!" Molly demanded, furious. She was clearly embarrassed about her anxiety.

"Relax, he just does that," John said with a sigh. "It's kind of a talent of his. Anyway, I'm John. John Watson. That's Sherlock Holmes."

The latter was pacing back and forth across the room at this point, muttering incoherently to himself. He seemed to have forgotten the other two were in the room.

"So, who _is_ this Moriarty bloke?" Molly wanted to know.

"You don't remember?" John asked. "He was all over the news a few years back for burning his baby sister alive."

"Oh my god!" Molly exclaimed. "That's horrible."

"Yeah. I think he got off for a combination of young age and mental instability, though. They locked him up in an asylum for a year."

Molly shook her head in disgust, then turned back to Sherlock, who was still pacing. "Is _he_ -" she motioned to the frantic boy "-all right in the head?"

"I'm not sure," John admitted. "But he's brilliant. And he's my friend."

They watched Sherlock pace and mutter for a few more seconds before John cleared his throat. "You wanted to talk to us about something?"

Sherlock stopped, seemingly startled. "Oh. Right, yes. I have a theory. But first, Molly Hooper, I need you to tell me _exactly_ what happened from the moment you stepped outside."

"Okay....well, when I walked outside I turned straight into the alley, which is where I usually go. And they almost seemed to be waiting for me-"

"That's all I needed to hear," Sherlock interrupted. "Good day." Then he sat at his desk and opened his laptop, seeming excited.

"Good day?" Molly asked. "What, you think I'm leaving?"

"Yes. There's the door."

"Not until you tell me what's going on, I'm not!"

"Oh god, I can't stand inexorable females," Sherlock uttered, already typing into the browser. "John, show her out."

"Hang on now," John protested. "Those thugs just attacked her. If there was a reason for it, she has the right to know."

Sherlock looked up at John, his smokey grey eyes boring into him like they so often did, a curious expression on his face. "Fine," he conceded, and turned from his desk as he waited for a page to load.

"Molly, I'm not sure of the proper etiquette for telling someone this," Sherlock started, awkwardly, "But it appears as though you were seconds from being murdered before we showed up."

Molly's face paled, and John's did the same. "Murdered?" He asked. "How the bloody hell could you know- actually, don't answer that," John added, sensing that Sherlock would go into a twenty minute rant about what kind of suit the boy was wearing, or something.

"That's not the worst part, though," Sherlock continued, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the incident. "He knows who I am."

" _That's_ the worst part?!" Molly yelled in disbelief. "You're telling me I was almost killed, and you're focused on-"

"I've never met him," Sherlock's eyes seemed glazed over, like he was no longer seeing the room in front of him, and he was obviously talking to himself more than he was to Molly or John. "We come from opposite sides of the UK. I only know of him because of the news reports. How has he seen _me_ before?"

"Have you ever thought that he's simply heard about you from people at school?" John pointed out, although he should've known better. Sherlock was always ten steps ahead of everyone.

"No, he knows me," Sherlock said with confidence. "I could tell. The look in his eyes. The way he spoke to me. Like he knew exactly who I was. Dammit, he even knows that my average deduction time is three seconds-" he stopped suddenly, and John could almost hear the _click_ in his overactive brain as something became clear. "Oh, of course," he said, through gritted teeth. "Of course!" He pulled out his cell phone and clicked some buttons before pressing it to his ear with angry force.

As soon as whoever was on the line greeted him, Sherlock said, "My room. _Now_." Then hung up.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"You'll see in about thirteen seconds."

Exactly thirteen seconds later, the door opened without a knock and in walked Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock practically jumped up from his desk chair and grabbed his brother by the collar. "What do you know about Jim Moriarty?!" He demanded. "And what does he know about me?!"

Mycroft made no effort to push his younger brother off of him, he just stared at him with an unreadable face.

Well, unreadable to John anyway. But it apparently said a thousand words to Sherlock.

"Ireland..." His face showed sudden realization, and then he laughed. "Ah, yes. This does make it more interesting. You're still a dick, though," and with that he shoved Mycroft to the floor.

"Wait, what did we miss?" Molly asked.

"It wasn't my fault," Mycroft argued, ignoring Molly's question as he picked himself up off the ground. "They were interrogating me-"

"You told him my name."

"He found out from his father-"

"And how did his _father_ know???"

"Because the man stole your file from my boss!"

Sherlock sat back and sighed with a mix of frustration and satisfaction. "Ah, so you finally admit that you have a boss now."

John couldn't take it anymore. "What the BLOODY HELL are you two going on about?!"

"I'll explain once _he_ leaves," Sherlock replied, motioning to his Mycroft. "Wouldn't want my dear brother giving out anymore of my personal information for his business, now, would we?"

"What _business_?" Molly asked. "What kind of important business could a teenager possibly be apart of?"

"That is classified information," Mycroft said, still looking at his brother with disdain. "And Sherlock, I strongly suggest that you not get involved. Whatever Moriarty's plans are, my men are already looking into it. Your idiocy will only get you hurt. Besides, it's none of your concern-"

"You made it my concern when you told him about me!" Sherlock shouted back. John had never seen him this angry. "So anything that happens to me will be YOUR fault!"

The brothers glared at each other for several long, tense seconds. The whole room had gone quiet; even John and Molly had stopped asking questions, suddenly feeling as if they were intruding on a private family matter.

Then, without another word, Mycroft turned and stocked out of the room, slamming the door behind him with great force.

"Right, so I suppose I should bring you two up to speed," said Sherlock, turning back to his laptop as if nothing had happened.

"You think?!" Molly squeaked, looking so angry that John wouldn't have been surprised if she spontaneously combusted.

The page on Sherlock's laptop had finally loaded to reveal a very official, top-secret-looking website with a homepage written entirely in code. John was surprised to recognize the code as similar to something he had seen on Mycroft's laptop over a fortnight ago.

"Sherlock, is this the website of the secret agency Mycroft works for?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up at him, obviously impressed. "Yes it is," he said. "Well done, John."

Noting that Molly was about to explode with frustration, John turned to fill her in on what little he knew about Mycroft. "Apparently his brother is in some kind of secret service involving international communications, or something," he explained, rather lamely.

"Okay, but what does that have to do with Moriarty?!" she asked Sherlock. "Are you _ever_ going to tell me what's going on?!"

"All in good time, Molly dear," he muttered, not glancing up from the screen, but John thought he glimpsed the smallest hint of a smirk. He seemed to enjoy keeping Molly waiting, as if her growing frustration amused him.

While Molly tapped her foot, huffing impatiently ever now and then, John watched her and tried to deduce her the way Sherlock did to people. He knew very little about her from the one class they had together, except that she was very quiet and always did her work, and was always one of the first people to complete tests (after Sherlock, of course). He wondered what she could've done to end up in Baskerville's School for Troubled Teens. Sherlock had said something before about Molly not belonging here. Had she possibly been sent here by mistake? Did Sherlock know this simply by looking at her?

Then John found himself wondering how much Sherlock had to look at Molly to know what he did about her. She sat two seats to John's left in chemistry. Was it her that Sherlock was staring at when he seemed to be spacing off in that direction? Why had he been so quick to punch that boy who had his hand up her shirt, and to help her up afterward? Did Sherlock _like_ Molly? Did he-

"Right then!" Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, interrupting John's paranoid train of thought in time for him to note his own feelings of jealousy before they slithered back to wherever they had come from. _What the hell was that about?_

"So did you find what you were looking for?" Molly asked eagerly.

"Yes."

"And?" Molly urged him on. "What did it have to do with Moriarty?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"WHAT?" Molly shrieked, while John laughed out loud. It was not unlike Sherlock to get sidetracked. He had no doubt that whatever Sherlock had been looking at was important, but maybe not to their current situation.

"Don't worry Molly Hooper, it was nothing that concerns you. Now, as for Moriarty," Sherlock finally began his explanation while Molly fumed. "I remember his case exactly. For the brutal murder of his sister he was sentenced to a year in an asylum and four additional years in a behavioral correction facility. That's why he's here. However, he's known about me for a long time. I know how and why he's heard of me now, but I still don't know _when_....anyway, apparently he was ecstatic when he found out that I was here as well. He wanted my attention immediately. Yes, Molly, he was definitely about to murder you today. You're quite lucky that friend of his wanted to have his fun first. But you needn't worry, as your life is no longer in danger. You see, the murder was just his plan to get my attention."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Really? And why does this random psychopath care so much about you?"

"That's what I'm still trying to figure out!" Sherlock yelled, standing up again suddenly and resuming his frantic pacing. "He knows all about my skills in deduction and about my hobby of solving crimes because my _brother_ ," he spat the word like it was disgusting, "fed the information to his boss who then filed me under 'People to Track' or some rubbish like that. I think it's safe to deduce that Mycroft was briefly captured when he visited Ireland to investigate the Moriarty family. Jim's father must've stolen whatever file I was in long before that, but it was when Jim talked to Mycroft that he found out the personal stuff. The bastard," Sherlock scowled, and it was unclear to John whether he was insulting Moriarty or his brother.

"But that still doesn't explain why Jim cares so much!" Sherlock continued. His eyes were darting around with incredible speed as he paced, searching his mind palace frantically for answers while he ranted. "I mean, he obviously wants to murder me eventually, but why? Does he see me as a threat to his father's operation? Why me and not my brother? I'm not even in the secret service! What does he want from me?! Urggggh!" Frustrated at not knowing, Sherlock picked up one of his textbooks from his desk and threw it against the wall.

John sat on his bed, feeling very weak all of a sudden. It was all so much to take in. Was it possible that only a half hour ago he was sitting down to enjoy a nice lunch? And now there was a vicious murderer out to get his best friend, and possibly- it suddenly occurred to him- anyone associated with him.

Sherlock turned from the dent he had made in the wall and looked surprised to find that Molly was standing there, listening attentively. "Why are you still here?" he snapped, quite rudely. "Didn't you hear me when I said your life's no longer in danger?"

"Well, yes but-" Molly began, timidly.

"But what? Do you want it to be?!"

"No-"

"Then get the hell out of here before he decides to use you as bait a second time!"

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it again. She obviously did not want to leave, but didn't seem to know what to say. She bit her lip, then quickly turned and left the room.

Sherlock collapsed onto his bed face down. This had all seemed so new and exciting and _fun_ to him at first, but now he was confused. He _hated_ being confused; it was possibly the worst feeling there ever was. He had to find out what Jim Moriarty wanted with him, but he did not have nearly enough information to just go skipping up to his dorm and asking him. For all he knew, Moriarty was just waiting for an opportunity to kill him. And Sherlock was positive that's what Jim's ultimate goal was. The file he had read on the laptop proved that.

Yes, Sherlock had lied to Molly Hooper slightly. The file he was looking through had a lot to do with Moriarty. It _shouldn't_ have, because it was his older brother's case file that he had hacked into, but it did. And now he knew what Mycroft clearly had no interest in telling him. He knew what Mycroft's next assignment was, and why.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He couldn't. The cold electricity that he had come to associate with John's touch had just jolted through him stronger than ever before, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he would find that he had stopped breathing.

"This is....wow this is a lot. I have no idea how you must be feeling right now," said John, and Sherlock wanted so badly for John to take his hand off him, but at the same time wanted him to keep it there forever. He had no idea what that meant, but it was strange.

"I get it," said John, removing his hand. Sherlock sighed in both relief and disappointment. "I'll leave you alone."

"Wait," Sherlock sat up so quickly that he got a head rush. "Sorry, I just....John, there are so many things that I don't know, and that scares the hell out of me." Sherlock wasn't sure what made him say it, but he did. What was it about John that made him so honest?

"Honestly?" John said, staring right into Sherlock's cold grey eyes with his warm blue ones. "That scares the hell out of me, too."

__________________________

Mycroft was running back to his dorm. This struck him as odd even through his panic, because he almost never ran. He hardly had a reason to, even when he was on a job. Being a spy in real life wasn't like the movies, where people are always getting chased and shot at.

When you get captured as a spy in real life, there's no fighting your captors and escaping to a nearby helicopter amidst bullets and explosions. Instead, your boss sends men to come rescue you. If _those_ men fail, well, you're pretty much fucked because "there's no money in the budget to send out two rescue missions for the same shithead who was dumb enough to get his arse captured". And that was the code of the international secret service.

The only mission on which Mycroft was ever captured, that one unfortunate incident in Ireland now responsible for all his current problems, Mycroft was ordered to answer all of Mr. Moriarty's questions honestly. He had to keep saying useful and interesting things, whatever it took to avoid death long enough for the rescue mission to get there. Fifteen year old Mycroft had never been more scared in his life.

So yes, he told them about his brother, who Moriarty evidently already had a file on. "I have a younger brother" was the first thing he could think of to say when confronted with "So, tell me about yourself". Moriarty wanted to know the secret plans of Mycroft's unit, and he chose to sell out Sherlock instead.

Then the man brought in his son Jim, who apparently felt like he had a lot in common with Sherlock and wanted to hear more about him.

Mycroft talked about Sherlock until the rescue team arrived. He told Jim what Sherlock looked like, what he liked to do, his favorite classes in school, everything. Jim took in even the seemingly useless information about him hungrily, smiling like a shark in front of a school of fish, his cold black eyes glowing with excitement.

By the time the men from his unit arrived and negotiated a peaceful deal with the Moriarty family, Mycroft had managed to go his entire interrogation without letting a single secret slip, instead having told Jim everything there was to know about his little brother.

Back home, Mycroft was promoted by his boss and admired by his entire unit. Everyone said he was the best agent they ever had. He had survived a two hour long interrogation without spilling a single secret, even when told he was allowed. He had outsmarted the great and powerful Moriarty family with useless details about his stupid little brother! _This kid is going places_ , everyone said. _He'll own the British government before he's thirty!_

Meanwhile, the brilliant spy Mycroft Holmes went back to his house, ignored his parents who asked how "summer camp" in Ireland was, ignored his twelve-year-old, inevitably doomed little brother who wanted to know why the hell he had _really_ gone to Ireland, ignored his phone buzzing with what were undoubtedly coded texts describing his next mission, went upstairs to his room, and slammed his head into the door repeatedly.

__________________________

Now, Mycroft ran into his dorm, ignored his concerned roommate, and did the exact same thing, cursing himself between every bang of his head.

BANG "Stupid-" BANG "-fucking-" BANG "-idiot!"

"Mycroft, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Greg tried to pull him away from the door, but Mycroft just hit his head harder against it. He wanted a concussion. He wanted amnesia. He wanted to knock the genius right out of his brain so that the secret service would fire him, because apparently being a monster who sells out your family just gets you promoted in this business.

"Mycroft, calm down! Stop! CALM DOWN!"

BANG. "Fucking-" BANG "-stupid-" BANG "-moron-"

Suddenly, Mycroft was on the floor, having been tackled by his muscular roommate who saw no other way of getting his attention. Greg was sitting on Mycroft's legs and had his arms pinned down above his head, leaning down so that their faces were inches apart. Mycroft fell completely silent. He even stopped breathing. Everything was erased from his mind, and he was aware of nothing except the position he and Greg were in, and what it was doing to his heart.

"Are you calm now?" Greg whispered.

 _Not even slightly_. "Yes."

"Good," said Greg, but he didn't move an inch. "Now, I don't know what the hell happened to you, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I know that banging your head against the door won't solve anything."

 _No, but it might help me forget how badly I've fucked everything up_. "I know."

"Okay," said Greg. "Now, I'm going to get off you now. And when I do, you're not going to resume trying to crack your head open. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen. Okay?"

"Okay."

Greg stood up, freeing Mycroft to so the same. Mycroft waited for his heart rate to return to normal before he spoke, and for the first time, he did not hold back.

"A little over two years ago I was captured on one of my investigations. They wanted to know every piece of classified information I had to offer. Not wanting to fail one of my first out-of-country missions, I told them about my crime-solving younger brother instead. Don't ask me why, it just made sense at the time. Unfortunately, the son of the criminal mastermind took a legitimate interest in Sherlock. He asked personal questions about him, and I answered every one. I managed to survive the interrogation with my agency's plans for taking down Moriarty still secret, but at the price of my brother's safety.

"While Jim Moriarty was institutionalized last year, we succeeded at taking down his father. For awhile, we though we had won. I was promoted once again and assigned to other matters.

"But a few weeks ago, I was informed via coded email that Jim Moriarty is free, now attends this school, and has inherited his father's dreams to corrupt the government. My next assignment: kill Jim Moriarty. In my boss's words, 'He's a stupid, overambitious teenage boy without a plan. I'm sure you can handle it.'

"But they don't know the truth, Greg. They've never met him, and they underestimate him. Jim Moriarty is, in fact, a _brilliant_ , overambitious teenage boy with an unhealthy obsession with my brother, and I just know that Sherlock is part of his plan somehow."

Greg listened calmly as Mycroft blurted out the story and, much to Mycroft's surprise, did not look at him with disgust when Mycroft told him what he had done to Sherlock.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Greg said, scaring Mycroft slightly with how calm he was being. "You've got to kill Moriarty. Just find out where his dorm is and shoot him. You've got a gun, don't you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, Greg, but it's not that simple. If it were, I would've done it already. He's expecting me, and I still need information! I don't know what his plan is. I don't even know who he's working with. All I know is that he's after Sherlock, and now that Sherlock knows this he's going to be putting himself in even more danger because he has to play _fucking_ detective!" Mycroft sank to the floor, his head in his hands. "Everything is so fucked up now," he muttered.

Greg sat down on the floor as well and put his arm around his friend. "I couldn't agree more, mate."

 


	7. Plans and Realizations

"OW! Be careful!" 

"Pipe down Sebastian, I'm trying to help you," Irene snapped, applying ice to his bruised nose. "Besides, he didn't hit you that hard."

"But it hurts!"

"Oh, man up. It's not even broken."

"How about I punch you in the nose and see how you-"

"Will both of you shut up!" Jim Moriarty yelled at his partners. He was quite sick of their constant bickering. "I'm trying to think!" He then leaned back on his bed and resumed his contemplating. What to do next....

Immediately after the incident with Sherlock, Jim had dragged his injured comrade up to their dorm and summoned Irene Adler, his only other asset in this godforsaken place, to tend to him while he considered how to proceed. There were so many options. However, many of them included murder, and Jim wasn't sure if it was time for that quite yet. Especially since Sherlock now knew about him.

"I thought you already had a plan," Sebastian mumbled through the bag of ice Irene was pressing (a bit too firmly) to his face. "Although, I guess it won't work anymore, will it?"

Jim turned to him with a scowl, irritated by his friend's lack of faith. "It's still going to work!" he snapped. "It just....needs some adjustments."

"How is the plan supposed to work now? Everything depended on that first murder!" Irene argued, frustrated. Then, she glared at Sebastian. "You couldn't just kill the girl, could you? No, you had to be a _pig_! And _you_ -" she turned on Jim "-had to let him. Ugh, all men are the same."

Jim rolled his eyes, but said nothing about her last comment. He didn't much like Irene anymore than Seb did, but he at least understood that she was incredibly valuable to them at the moment, so it wouldn't be wise to piss her off. With several necessary connections, a hunger for domination, and a grudge against the older Holmes boy, Irene Adler was someone who, though incredibly irritating at times, Jim considered them lucky to have come into contact with.

"Calm down Irene," Jim said. "You'll get your payment one way or another."

"It's not just about the money, and you know it!" Irene practically growled. "Mycroft Holmes has interfered with my affairs for the last time. I want him finished-"

"You'll get what you want once I have Sherlock!"

Irene's demeanor changed immediately at the mention of Sherlock's name. Her eyes softened and she became rather pouty. "Oh, Jim. Must we kill the younger one? He's just so....sexy."

Jim became even more annoyed at this. "We have an agreement, Irene! You _will_ help me destroy Sherlock Holmes, and I don't want to worry about you betraying us because you've gone soft for him. You can stay professional, or you can go be a whore somewhere else!"

Seb stifled a laugh at this, but Irene took no offense. She just stared at Jim, curiously. "Why are you so obsessed with this Sherlock boy, anyway? Isn't it the older one you need to worry about?"

"That's no concern of yours!" Jim snapped back, defensively.

"Isn't it?" she said with narrowed eyes. "I _am_ helping you take him down-"

"-And you're getting paid for it," Jim interrupted, angrily. "You just worry about your part of the plan, and I'll worry about the rest-"

"Speaking of the plan-" Sebastian piped up, shoving Irene's hand away from his face, "what are we supposed to do next? You know, since the murder thing didn't work out-"

"Oh, we're still going to murder someone," Jim said with a shark's grin, as an idea popped into his mind at that moment. "We'll just need to do a little more observation."

Irene groaned. "Come _on_. We've been observing him for a month! The only person he ever talks to is that John Watson kid, and you already said we can't go after him yet because-"

"Because that part comes later," Jim said, calmly. A new plan was forming perfectly in his head as they spoke. It was beautiful, even better than the first one. "And it's not Sherlock we need to observe anymore, or even Mycroft. We need to start looking at someone who has nothing to do with either of them."

Both Sebastian and Irene stared at him with confused expressions. Jim sighed. Such small minds he was forced to be around. "Look, the original plan was to get his attention, and then get him to come to us, right?"

His partners nodded.

"Well now that he knows who I am," Jim continued, his grin widening, "We need to get everyone _else's_ attention, and then he'll come to us all on his own."

__________________________

It was past midnight, over twelve hours since they had discovered Moriarty, and Sherlock would not come out of his mind palace.

John had turned out the light hours ago, and still his friend lay upright against his headboard with his eyes staring off and his fingers steepled in their usual position, sitting in absolute silence. John found this even more frightening than the frantically pacing Sherlock of hours earlier, because at least then he was talking. Now, he was as still and silent as a statue, and looking just as likely of ever coming back to life.

Finally, after what felt like years of tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep, John couldn't take it anymore. He sat up and turned on the lamp. "Sherlock, I know you don't like me to disturb you while you're in your mind palace, but you've been sitting like that for hours. You need to eat or sleep or at least _move_ for gods sake!"

No response. Just the same, stony silence. His eyes didn't even seem to be moving, like they normally did.

"Sherlock, please answer me."

Still nothing. John sighed and did what he saw to be the only option: he walked straight up to his roommate's bed, shook his shoulders violently and yelled "Sherlock Holmes, snap out of it!"

And Sherlock did. "What whathappened?" he said, looking quite dazed, as if he had just been woken from a dream. Then he noticed John, and his face turned bright red.

Luckily, John didn't notice. "Sherlock, it's half past midnight, and I don't think you ate at all yesterday. I know that you're concerned about what Moriarty-"

"Who?"

John was taken aback. "Isn't....isn't that who you've been thinking about for the past twelve hours?"

Sherlock paused, wearing an expression that John had never seen on him before: a combination of speechless, embarrassed, and scared.

"Y-yes. Yes, of course," Sherlock recovered quickly. "If you'll forgive me, my mind is a bit....a bit scattered right now."

"Well, it's no wonder. You haven't eaten!" John said, shaking his head in exasperation. He then pulled an apple from his bag and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it effortlessly, despite still looking a bit confused. "Now, if you'll just take care of yourself and give your mind a rest, we'll both be able to sleep peacefully." Then, John turned out the light and lay back down in his bed.

Sherlock's mind could not rest, however, for it was now buzzing with several new questions.

Why did John care so much if Sherlock didn't eat or sleep?

Why was John so worried about Sherlock that _he_ couldn't even sleep?

But most importantly, why had Sherlock spent the last twelve hours dissecting his possible feelings for John Watson rather than trying to figure out Moriarty's plans?

What the hell was wrong with him?

"I don't hear you eating!" John shouted from his bed.

Sherlock sighed and took a bite of the apple, filing away John's suspicious concern for his health in the already-too-extensive John room in his mind palace.

__________________________

Eight hours later, John was woken abruptly by the sound of his roommate screaming into his phone.

" _I'm_ the idiot? You're the one who didn't tell me that Moriarty's had his eyes set on me for years!" Sherlock was yelling while pacing back and forth with his back turned to John. "I had to dig that up on my own. Side note, you should let your _boss_ know that his coded database is far too easy to hack."

He paused as the person on the other end, whom John assumed to be Mycroft, responded.

"....No.....Absolutely fucking not.....I don't care what you've been assigned to do! You're not killing him until I figure out what the hell he wants with me.....What? What risks? I'll only be endangering myself, and I don't care-"

Sherlock cut himself off abruptly and turned to look at John, who quickly closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He knew that Sherlock saw right through it, though, as he spoke a again in a much lower voice.

"I would _never_ let anything happen to him," he murmured. "And I don't see what concern it is of yours what our 'relationship' is..... _what_?!" He was back to yelling. "That is none of your....Oh, go to hell, Mycroft!" And with that, Sherlock hung up his phone and threw it onto his bed in anger. Then he turned back to John, who immediately closed his eyes again.

"Oh, cut it out John, I know you're awake!"

Sighing, John opened his eyes and sat up. "Did you sleep at all last night, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I got four hours!" Sherlock responded, defensively. He still looked extremely agitated from his phone call as he sat in his desk chair and opened his laptop.

Although it was barely 8 am on a Sunday and John kind of wanted to go back to sleep, he got up and started getting himself ready for the day.

Once he was showered and dressed, he came out of the bathroom to find Sherlock still sitting at his desk, but staring at a blank laptop screen. John wasn't sure if his friend was at a loss for what to do, or had just slipped into his mind palace randomly. Either way, John did not want to just leave him alone this time, afraid that, like yesterday, he would end up sitting in the same spot for several hours.

John walked up to Sherlock's desk and closed his laptop. "Sherlock, take a break. "

Sherlock looked up at him, seemingly confused. "What do you mean?"

"Yesterday was incredibly stressful, and you're operating on very little food and sleep. Just relax your mind for awhile, do something fun. Here," he handed Sherlock the half-finished seventh Harry Potter book from his bedside table. "Finish this."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because someone's about to die, I'm sure of it!" said Sherlock. "I'm not sure who, and I'm afraid to find out."

John opened the book to see where Sherlock was at, and when he saw the part he was approaching, he almost didn't want to let Sherlock read it. It was possibly one of the most painful parts of the entire series. But he needed to get his mind off of Moriarty.

John held the book out to him. "Finish it," he said. "I promise, it's worth it."

Reluctantly, Sherlock took the book and opened it to his saved place. Meanwhile, John sat at his own desk to work on his chemistry homework, and waited.

Sure enough, about two minutes later. "No....no. This is unacceptable!" Frantically, Sherlock started flipping through the other Harry Potter books sitting on his desk. "Where in this series does it say that thrown inanimate objects can travel with apparating wizards?!"

"Sherlock-"

"No, John! It's not only unfair, it's impossible!" John was surprised to see that he was speaking through tears. He hadn't even cried at the end of the fifth book. John chalked it up to Sherlock already being emotional from the extreme stress he was under.

"When one looks at the time it takes for a witch or wizard to vanish into thin air, versus the time it takes for a thrown object to travel from several feet across the room-factoring in, of course, the knife's velocity-"

"Sherlock, you're supposed to be giving your mind a break, remember?"

"BUT DOBBY THE ELF CANT BE DEAD!!!"

"I know it's hard to accept," said John, sympathetically. "But you have to keep reading. You can write an angry letter to J.K. Rowling later, if you want."

"Oh believe me, I will!" Sherlock yelled, wiping his eyes angrily and returning to the story.

John watched him read with fascination. He loved how he seemed to let his guard down entirely as he read, allowing his facial expressions to change dramatically, displaying exactly what he was feeling. It was something that he never did any other time.

John smiled as he looked at Sherlock's face, first focusing on his eyes, then on his lips. He wondered what it would be like to....

 _What?!_ John inhaled sharply, unable to believe what he had just thought, and how fast his pulse had started racing when he had. Luckily, Sherlock was too sucked into what he was reading to notice. Otherwise, he probably would've deduced John's exact thoughts in seconds.

Realizing this, John rushed into the bathroom and up to the mirror above the sink. He stared at his reflection; the panic he felt seemed to be written all over his face.

Breathing heavily, John closed his eyes. _I did not just imagine kissing Sherlock,_ he tried desperately to convince himself. _That did not just happen. That did NOT just happen._

But it had. And when John opened his eyes to see that his face was still red with embarrassment at himself, he wanted to cry in frustration. Sherlock was bound to notice this. What the hell was wrong with him?

John closed his eyes again, focusing on his breathing, and changed his mantra.

 _I do not have a crush on Sherlock Holmes,_ he insisted, simultaneously telling his heart to shut the fuck up. _I do NOT have a crush on Sherlock...._

But it was pointless, and he knew it. Just like all those times throughout his preteen years when he had tried to do this exact same thing, only while reciting ' _I'm not gay'_ to himself. It never made it any less true.

__________________________

Mycroft had called Sherlock over a dozen times that morning before he finally answered.

"What the fuck do you want?" He asked when he picked up the phone

Mycroft sighed. "I knew you were awake-"

"Of course I'm fucking awake," Sherlock growled. "You don't tend to sleep a lot when you're thinking about how someone wants to murder you."

"Sherlock, I know you're pissed at me-"

"That's an understatement-"

"-And I'm not even going to try apologizing for what I did. But you can't go after him."

Sherlock laughed. "I can do whatever I want, big brother. And right now, I want to figure out what Moriarty wants with me. Unless, of course, you can make my life easier and just tell me."

"I don't _know_ what he wants with you," Mycroft groaned. "Just that it's definitely you he wants-"

"Well then I'll have to figure out the rest myself, won't I?" Sherlock said, his tone quite amused. "And if I die in the process-"

"You better not fucking die, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, nearly hysterical at this point. "If you die, I swear I'll-"

"What? You'll kill me?" Sherlock laughed again. "Whatever Mycroft. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some research to do-"

"Sherlock, please just stay out of this!" Mycroft begged. "This isn't your ten-year-old detective work for Scotland Yard! Moriarty wants to murder you, you fucking idiot!"

 _I'm_ the idiot?" Sherlock yelled back, all amusement gone from his voice. "You're the one who didn't tell me that Moriarty's had his eyes set on me for years! I had to dig that up on my own. Side note, you should let your _boss_ know that his coded database is far too easy to hack."

"Then you've seen my file!" Mycroft countered. "You know that I've already been assigned to kill Moriarty, so you don't have to-"

"No."

"Yes Sherlock, I'm going to kill him."

"Absolutely fucking not."

"Sherlock, I couldn't get out of this if I wanted to. It's my assignment-"

"I don't care what you've been assigned to do!" Sherlock cut him off. "You're not killing him until I figure out what the hell he wants with me."

"You have no idea the risks you'll be taking by messing with Jim Moriarty!" Mycroft yelled, begging him to see reason.

"What? What risks? I'll only be endangering myself, and I don't care-"

"What about your little friend, hm? What about John Watson? You think he won't go straight for the people you care about most? And you know, I'm not sure your relationship with him ends at friendship. If I can see that, Moriarty will surely be able to!"

There was a short pause.

"I would _never_ let anything happen to him," Sherlock said, speaking in a much lower voice. "And I don't see what concern it is of yours what our 'relationship' is-"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, I know that you're gay"

" _What?!"_

"Yeah," said Mycroft, figuring that his brother couldn't be anymore mad at him than he already was. "I read your journal shortly before we got arrested-"

"That is none of your-"

"And denying it won't make it go away," Mycroft assured him. "Trust me, I know."

"Oh, go to hell Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled right before he hung up.

Groaning loudly at his own failure as a brother, Mycroft threw his phone against the wall. He heard the screen shatter, but he didn't care. He just sank to the ground and put his head in his hands, knowing that he'd definitely be crying if he hadn't run out of tears long ago.

Suddenly, there was an arm around his shoulders, making Mycroft flinch and look up.

"Sorry," said Greg. "You looked like you needed comforting and your, um, phone call woke me up."

It took Mycroft a few seconds to be embarrassed, because that's how long it took him to remember what he had said near the end of the phone call.

" _Trust me, I know."_

Had Greg heard what he had said right before that? If so, was he able to put two and two together? Mycroft did not want to meet his eyes and find out, but Greg didn't give him a choice. He crouched down so that they were right next to each other on the floor and took Mycroft's face in his hands, boldly.

"Hey," he said, quietly. "It's okay."

Then he hugged him, and Mycroft hugged him back, shaking but still not crying.

"I know," Greg whispered. "Trust me, I know."

__________________________

Sunday night, nobody slept soundly.

Sherlock trudged into chemistry class with John the next morning, hardly able to stand upright. He had gotten even less sleep last night than he had the night before, finishing the last Harry Potter book at around 3 am and lying awake thinking for the next several hours. Also, he hadn't eaten anything since that apple John gave him over thirty hours ago, and he had eaten nothing for days before that. He refused to admit it to himself, but he honestly felt like he was about to pass out.

Stupid biology.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock merely grunted in response, using all of his remaining willpower to keep himself as perceptive as he usually was. However, as he observed the random students around him, he noticed that it now took him over six seconds to deduce what he normally could in three. He felt empty and heavy, and he could hardly see straight.

Stupid. Fucking. Biology.

"You know Sherlock," said John, as the boys took their seats, "I have some energy bars in my bag if you-"

"Noimfine," Sherlock muttered, his words slurring together even as he said this. "Dunneedfood."

" _Sherlock_ ," John pressed, sternly. "You will not be able to think clearly until you eat something. And I'm not taking no for an answer." He shoved the energy bar into Sherlock's hand and, despite what he had said before, Sherlock immediately opened it and bit into it hungrily.

Perhaps it was a placebo, but the food seemed to improve Sherlock's perception almost instantly. His vision was no longer blurred around the edges, and he could now notice things that he hadn't seen a few seconds ago.

Like the fact that Mycroft was sitting in his seat behind Sherlock, with his head in his hands and looking utterly broken.

As if feeling his brother staring at him, Mycroft looked up and their eyes met.

For Sherlock, it was like looking into a mirror. Not because the brothers looked any more alike than usual, but because they currently shared the same dark eyes, wild hair, and look of near starvation. Both boys were stressed beyond belief.

"You need to get more sleep, little brother," Mycroft said, his voice raspy.

"You should talk," Sherlock muttered back, mirroring Mycroft's look of sympathy, and for just a second it was like they weren't fighting.

But that was all it took for Sherlock to remember what his brother had done to him, how he had betrayed him to the psychotic son of an international criminal, and yesterday's anger returned in full force. Sherlock's sympathetic look quickly turned to one of absolute hatred, and he turned back forward in his seat right as the bell rang.

"Good morning class," Mr. Dixon began immediately. "Today we'll be doing our first lab."

 _Finally,_ Sherlock thought. He lived for experimental chemistry, and was quite disappointed that Dixon had spent the entire first month of the school year lecturing. But at long last they were going to do something! He just hoped that there wouldn't be-

"You'll be working in groups of three-"

_Dammit._

"-And I'll be choosing your groups."

_DAMMIT!_

Sherlock groaned in frustration. He brightened up a bit, however, when he noticed that Dixon was just going around the room and grouping people that sat close to each other. One of his partners would be John!

But as Dixon neared them, Sherlock realized with dismay the possibilities of their third group member. They would either get Mycroft, making the next fifty-six minutes unbearably awkward for obvious reasons; Phillip Anderson, the painfully stupid boy who sat to the right of Sherlock and always tried to trip him in the halls; or-

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Molly Hooper."

.... _dammit_.

"The lab instructions are on page 420 of your textbook. Work hard, because this counts as your test grade for the unit. Go!"

As Molly pulled her chair up to John's and Sherlock's table with narrowed eyes, Sherlock found himself wishing that they had been paired with Anderson instead.

"Er, I think I'll go get the lab equipment," said John, seeming eager to escape for a moment. "It says here we need....stuff."

John got up and left without looking at Sherlock, as he had hardly looked at him all morning. Sherlock found this odd, but he stored the observation in his mind palace to ponder later, as Molly Hooper was currently giving him a death glare with the power to wipe everything from his mind.

"So, uh...." Sherlock began awkwardly, unsure of why the hell he was even speaking. "I suppose you expect me to apologize for....for how I, er, _treated you_ I guess, a couple days ago."

Surprisingly, Molly's hard gaze immediately softened. "No, not really," she said, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Never in his life had he met a female that _didn't_ expect an apology after one meeting with Sherlock.

"I mean," Molly continued. "The way you kicked me out was rather rude, but you did save my life before that, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that's true."

"Thank you for that, by the way."

"Er....you're welcome," Sherlock responded, awkwardly.

"Now, I just want to know what you're up to."

Just then, John returned with their supplies. "What who's up to?"

"You two," said Molly, her eyes narrowed once again. "What are you guys going to do next?"

"What are you talking about?" John said, although he had a vague idea.

"Well, Moriarty's after Sherlock, isn't he?" Molly prompted. "That's right," she said in response to Sherlock's look. "I was there for that part, and I _am_ known to pay attention sometimes. My question is, what are you going to do about it? I doubt the headmaster would believe you if you told him, and I'm sure you guys have ruled that out by now anyway, so you must plan to handle this yourselves!" She seemed ridiculously excited. "What's your next move?"

Silence from both boys.

"Oh, come on! You, you're some kind of genius, right?" she asked Sherlock.

"Technically," he said.

"Well then you've got to have some kind of plan by now! Come on, what are you going to do?"

"....To be honest," said Sherlock, and it was incredibly painful for him to admit this, "I'm still kind of figuring that out."

Molly must have noticed how embarrassed Sherlock was about this, because she backed off a little. "Well, I'm sure you'll come up with something. And," she hesitated for a moment, as if not very sure of herself. "Whatever it is, I want in."

The boys stopped setting up the lab and looked at her like she was crazy. " _What?_ " John nearly yelled.

"I want to be a part of this," Molly said, with a bit more confidence. "And I think I deserve to be. I _was_ their first target, after all."

John didn't know what to say. It had never even been established that _he_ would be apart of this, whatever "this" was. Up to this point, Moriarty had seemed more like Sherlock's problem than his.

But now, as Sherlock looked at him questioningly- as if the choice of letting Molly be apart of "this" was something for both of them to decide, John realized that an enemy of Sherlock's was an enemy of his, and that he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Well, I don't see why not," said John, looking at Sherlock for affirmation.

"When I figure out how I want to proceed," said Sherlock, looking at her curiously. "I think we could find some way for you to help."

Molly smiled wide. "Excellent," she said. "Now, I suppose we should start on this lab sometime today."

__________________________

After class was over, Molly gave a parting smile to the boys before heading off to her next class, while John and Sherlock headed off to theirs.

"I just don't understand," said John. "Why is she so interested in helping us stop a murderer? She strikes me as the type of girl who would insist on telling an adult about this-"

"You have her all wrong," said Sherlock, smiling. Molly's interest in helping them had actually inspired him in a way, and he was a lot happier and more energized than he had been this morning. "You see her as timid and afraid because the last time we saw her she was so shaken up, but she's actually quite courageous. I could see it in her eyes when she was talking. She longs for excitement, like me and you.

"Also," Sherlock continued. "Although she would never admit this, she sees this as an opportunity to finally make some friends."

"Have you been able to deduce why she was sent here?" John asked curiously, absentmindedly reaching over and moving aside a dark curl that had fallen into Sherlock's face.

"Only that it was for something that she didn't do. Beyond that, I think we'd just have to ask her-"

It was then that Sherlock had an epiphany. It was shocking. It was important. It had nothing to do with what they were just talking about and everything to do with the tremor that ran through his body when John touched his hair.

Mycroft was right.

"No fucking way!" Sherlock exclaimed in a tone so panicked that John whirled around in the middle of the hallway to see what was wrong.

"What happened Sherlock? What's wrong? What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock's mind was nearly always ten miles ahead of his mouth, in a way that only he truly understood. For every sentence he ever spoke, his mind was off in a thousand different directions towards things that were completely irrelevant, and sometimes not even important. Like the fact that the boy in front of them had marijuana in his backpack, or that the student-made poster they just passed had exactly four grammar mistakes.

But it was usually when Sherlock was thinking of several important things at once while talking about something quite unimportant that he had epiphanies. Like now, while they had been talking about Molly, he had simultaneously been thinking about Moriarty, his brother, and John....mostly John, though. There was hardly a time anymore when part of his mind _wasn't_ thinking about John. And now he knew why.....but it was _impossible!_ This didn't happen to him! He didn't feel-

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, anxiously.

"Nothing," said Sherlock, making his face as blank as ever. "It's irrelevant."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Sherlock. "Believe me John, if it was anything you needed to know, I would tell you."

__________________________

 _Screw classes,_ Mycroft thought to himself as he went back to his dorm right after chemistry. He probably knew more than every teacher in this building combined. He could afford to take a mental health day.

He unlocked his room, however, to find Greg strumming a guitar on his bed. "Woah, hey Myc. I didn't expect to see you this early."

_Why must he be everywhere I go?_

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft growled, desiring nothing more than to be alone right now. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"I always skip second period," said Greg simply. "A better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

"I just needed a break. I'm so fucking sick of everything right now. Classes here are a joke, my brother hates me, I'm expected to kill someone before the semester ends, and- _will you stop playing that fucking guitar?!"_

For Greg had not stopped strumming the instrument since Mycroft had entered the room, and he could no longer take it. The way he sat with his shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes, combined with the beautiful notes he was producing with his callused fingers, gave Mycroft a strange but immense urge to grab the boy by his loose t-shirt and kiss him.

"Alright, alright keep your pants on," Greg said with his familiar crooked smile. "You just need to relax. It's healthy to skip class every now and then, particularly when you're a teenaged assassin."

Mycroft shook his head, commanding himself not to look at Greg's stupid lips, and fell into bed, even though he knew he would not be sleeping anytime soon.

"Speaking of which, when are you planning on killing the bloke?"

"Greg, why the hell are you so casual about this?!" Mycroft finally asked, sitting up in agitation.

Greg shrugged. "My dad's a police officer. I've kind of become immune to the subject of murder. Besides," he said, smiling like an idiot, "I still think it's cool that my roommate works for the secret service. This is, like, the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me. Hey, do you think I could help you out on a job sometime?!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Aw, come on. I've never shot anyone before! Is it cool?"

Mycroft stared at him. This kid was insane. He was stupid. He was careless. He was so fucking adorable that Mycroft wanted to jump out the window just to make his heart stop doing this ridiculous thing it was doing.

"Greg....just shut up."

Mycroft lay back down and pulled the covers up over his head so that he could panic properly.

He liked Greg.

He _liked_ Greg.

He had to kill a psychopath, he had to protect his brother, he had to make sure their parents didn't find out about any of this, and.......he had a fucking _crush_ on Greg Lestrade.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

 


	8. Madness

Despite the rising levels of stress and anticipation, particularly in three specific dorms in the B hall of Baskerville's, three uneventful weeks passed.

October came with gusts of cold air and heavy autumn rains, keeping spirits rather down overall, but otherwise life was normal. Teachers handed out homework, students misbehaved, Mr. Dixon was a dick; everything was business as usual. No murders. No suspicious incidents. Nothing interesting at all.

This drove Sherlock Holmes absolutely mad.

It was on one particularly cold, rainy afternoon that John entered his dorm after lunch to find Sherlock smoking by the open window, through which the strong winds and scattered raindrops entered, chilling the entire room.

"What the hell, Sherlock?!" John yelled, marching over and slamming the window shut. "Are you trying to catch pneumonia?!"

Sherlock held up the remaining portion of his cigarette. "I was merely being polite. I know how you hate it when I smoke in our room, so I was-"

John interrupted him by grabbing the cigarette out of his hand, opening the window again briefly to throw it out, and slamming it shut once more. "When I said that, I was implying that you should _stop_ smoking. Not that you should smoke through an open window during a storm!"

Sherlock didn't respond. He just retrieved his pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and pulled out another one, but John confiscated it as well, along with the entire pack. "Stop it," he said. "You don't need to smoke."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Well, because it clears my mind, it helps me focus, and I'm fucking BORED!" He jumped up from his chair at the last word. "I'm bored and confused, John, the two worst feelings in the world! Why hasn't he done anything yet? What the bloody hell is he waiting for? I see him everyday in the halls, going to his classes and looking all smug like he knows exactly what he's doing, while I sit here going through the same information over and over again, and it's never enough to deduce anything I don't already know! Is this his plan? To torment me? Just keep me waiting and waiting until I'm driven to insanity?!"

Before John could respond, their door opened a few inches and Molly poked her head in. "Is everything okay in here? I was just coming back from lunch and I could hear the yelling all the way down the hall."

"We're fine, Sherlock's just panicking again," said John. "Come on in."

Over the past few weeks, Molly's friendship with Sherlock and John had grown to the point where she was around their room fairly often, no longer so prudish about being in "the boys' wing". Sometimes they discussed what Moriarty's plans might be, other times they just chatted. She was really quite fun to have around, actually.

"So, I'm guessing there haven't been any new developments-"

"Don't remind him," John muttered, as Sherlock was still pacing frantically and cursing Moriarty under his breath. "Sherlock, you've got to calm down. Stressing yourself out won't solve anything-"

"You don't get it, John!" Sherlock yelled, kicking his desk chair over. "I have one of the most exciting criminals I've ever encountered right at my fingertips, but I can't act until _he_ does. Maybe I should just go over and-"

"No!" John interjected right away. "We've been over this, and you're not risking your life like that!"

One of the first things Sherlock had done after discovering Moriarty was hack into the school's student records and find out his room number: 203 B. Since then, he had been tempted several times to simply pay him a visit, but John had always been there to make him see reason. "This is the boy who burned his baby sister alive," John would remind him. "There's no reason to believe that he wouldn't be ready to kill you the moment you knocked on his door!"

This logic irritated Sherlock, but he had to admit that John was right. "Well if I can't do anything, you could at least let me smoke," he said, not even giving John a chance to argue before he swiped the pack from his hand. Then, he turned to leave the room. "I'll be outside."

"In this weather?!" John yelled in disbelief. A loud crack of thunder sounded as if to emphasize his point.

"Yep."

"But class starts in five minutes," said Molly.

"I have English," said Sherlock, as if that was all the excuse he needed to justify being late. Before the two could say anything else he was out the door, shutting it loudly behind him.

"He really has no concern for his health at all, does he?" Molly remarked.

John sighed loudly. "None," he confirmed. "It bugs the hell out of me."

Molly looked at him curiously, but John didn't catch it. He was kneeling on Sherlock's chair by the window, trying to see if he could catch sight of his friend through the rain.

"So," said Molly conversationally. "How long have you two been together?"

John whirled around in shock, sending himself tumbling off the chair and to the floor, bruising his shoulder. "Ow! W-what?!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Molly backtracked. "Is it alright that I know? I mean, I know you guys are hiding it and that's why I haven't mentioned it before-"

"Um, no. No no no, w-we're not-"

"But it's okay, really I'm not judging!" Molly assured him. "Of course, I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to, but I believe that love is love, and that-"

"Molly!" John cut her off. "We are _not_ together!"

She paused, mid-apology. "Really?"

"Really! What gave you that idea? I-I'm not even gay!"

At this, Molly's expression quickly changed from embarrassed to amused. "Sorry John, but I'm calling bullshit on that one," she laughed.

"But I'm not!"

"Yes you are," she insisted. "And so is Sherlock. Believe me, my gaydar is excellent."

John was speechless.

"I'm also very good at guessing relationships, usually," she added. "And I was so sure you guys were secretly dating."

"Well, we're not!" John snapped, his voice shaky and his face flaming red.

"Well then you should be," said Molly simply. "The romantic tension between you guys is palpable."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is! I can see it in the casual touches, the prolonged eye contact, the smiles. You're both crazy about each other!"

"That's not true," John mumbled, as he sat back in the chair in defeat. "I'm fairly sure it's all one sided."

Molly grinned, taking his last statement as a confession. "Trust me, it's not. I've seen the way he looks at you. He-"

But before she could continue, there was a loud knock on the door. They shared a look of confusion. It wasn't Sherlock; he would never knock, anyway.

"I've got it," John muttered. He opened the door to find a tall, extremely attractive girl with wavy brown hair leaning on the door frame, looking quite impatient.

"Someone told me I could find Molly Hooper in here," she stated viciously, her tone implying that if Molly _wasn't_ here there would be hell to pay.

"I'm right here," Molly said in a low voice, appearing from behind John with her head down. "John, this is my roommate, Irene. Irene, my friend John-"

"I don't _care_ who he is," Irene snarled. "All I care about is that I have chemistry in two minutes, and I still need to copy your homework. I looked through your bag and I couldn't find it. You've got quite the mess to clean up when you get back, by the way."

Molly sighed. "It's in the third drawer of my desk. Just please be sure to put it back when you're done-"

"Well I don't have time to copy it now, do I?" Irene snapped. "It's fine though, we'll just trade worksheets. I'll erase your name and put my own. That's not a problem, is it?"

"No," Molly replied instantly.

"Good. And don't forget that I need my history essay done by Friday, and it had _better_ earn me perfect marks!" And with that, the vicious girl stalked off in her six inch heels, leaving John to gape after her in disbelief.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

"Well, I have to get to class," said Molly quickly, attempting to rush out the open door and join the mass of students, but John pulled her back in and shut the door.

"Wait just a minute-"

"John, we're going to be late-"

"Then we'll be late," John said sternly. "I can't believe what I just saw! Why the hell do you let that bitch push you around like that?"

"It's not important. Please John, just drop it."

"I will not! Molly, I know you well enough by now to know that you take pride in your work. You would _never_ let someone just steal it from you like that. Is she threatening you?"

"John, please-"

"I'm not letting you go until you answer me! Are you in danger?"

"No John, I-" Molly sighed. "Look. Irene and I knew each other before Baskerville's and she's....she's got a lot on me. Let's just leave it at that."

"What do you mean? Like, she's blackmailing you?"

"John Watson, I swear you better drop this," Molly said through gritted teeth, her tone entering the danger zone.

But John wouldn't let up. "What does she have on you?"

"It's none of your business!"

"Come on, maybe I can help-"

"She was there, alright?!" Molly finally snapped, the venom in her voice making John flinch. "She was there when....right before I was arrested. She knows what really happened."

"What do you-?"

"I'm not saying anymore!" Molly yelled. "Just leave it! And don't you dare tell Sherlock. I don't need anyone else figuring out the truth." She shoved John aside with all her might and rushed off to class, and it wasn't until the bell rang that John shook himself out of his confusion and realized that he had to be in class as well.

__________________________

With his coat collar turned up and his navy scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, Sherlock marched out through the pouring rain to find a sheltered place to smoke.

He knew what he was looking for; he had noticed the structure in the distance the day he and John had rescued Molly several weeks before. The day they had discovered Moriarty.

He had to walk all the way around the school and across the large courtyard behind it, trudging heavily through the wet grass in his soaked-through clothes before he reached the place. It was the small, rusty shed about a hundred meters behind the school building, where the groundskeeper kept his gardening tools. The shed itself was locked, but it's flat tin roof stretched off a few feet on all sides, providing a decent shield from the rain.

Sherlock went behind the shed, where the roof stretched out the farthest, and had already lit a cigarette and taken a deep inhale before he realized that he was not alone. Directly to his left, in equally drenched clothes and smoking just as eagerly, was Mycroft.

The brothers seemed to acknowledge each other at the same time, but avoided speaking or making eye contact, perhaps afraid that doing either would immediately start an argument.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd had an actual conversation with Mycroft that didn't end negatively. Even before they had gotten arrested, their relationship had been falling apart for quite some time. This saddened Sherlock in a way, so even though his brother's presence still irked him at the moment, he didn't want to say anything that would turn their civil smoking session into a fight.

He didn't need to, however. A fight was started when, without warning, Mycroft plucked the the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand and threw it out into the rain.

"Oi! What the hell, Mycroft?!"

"You shouldn't smoke," the older boy said simply.

"What?" Sherlock laughed. This was new. "Since when? We've both done it for years. You bought me my first pack for chrissake."

"Which I regret very much," Mycroft said solemnly. "I have been....a horrible influence on you all these years. No fourteen-year-old should be smoking-"

"I'll be fifteen in three months!" Sherlock interrupted, knowing full and well how immature that sounded even as he said it. "And when did you suddenly start caring about my safety?"

"Don't change the subject, Sherlock. And you know I've always wanted you safe-"

"Oh really?" Sherlock countered. "You mean like when you sat in front of the vicious son of a criminal and told him my fucking life story? Yeah, you sound like bloody Brother of the Year to me-"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock! Just shut up for once and listen to me!" Mycroft threw aside his own cigarette and turned to face his brother entirely. "You think I won't regret that for the rest of my life? _Everything_ I've done since then has been to keep you safe! I burned every file my boss had of you, including the application you turned in back when you wanted _so much_ to be like me! I made sure you kept a low profile at school! I taught you not to care!"

"And I suppose you think that's helped me!" Sherlock's voice broke. A loud, rumbling wave of thunder shook the earth, and the rain started coming down even harder, hammering into the roof above them with such force that it seemed like the barrier would shatter.

The cold wind was chilling Sherlock to the bone, and they were both very late to class, but he didn't care. They were going to settle this right now. "You really think it was bloody _helpful_ to teach me not care? I don't even know _how_ to care anymore! And now I'm getting these....these _feelings,_ and I don't know what the hell to do with them!"

Mycroft knew he was talking about John Watson. He had suspected this for some time. "You ignore them!" he yelled. "Just like I always taught you. It's the safest way, Sherlock! If there is one piece of advice that is worth taking from me, it's this. People are idiots for caring, and you know it!"

"Well I guess I'm a bloody idiot then, because I care about John!"

Mycroft grabbed his brother's coat collar and shoved him up against the thin wall of the shed in anger. He refused to let Sherlock make this mistake. He had to protect him. "This is just like you! Someone follows you around for two months, puts up with your attitude and calls you clever, and you think you're in _love_!" He spat the word like it was disgusting. To him, it was. "You trust so easily, never thinking of the consequences!"

"I never said anything about _love_ , you tosser!" Sherlock blushed furiously, shoving his brother away from him.

"Well that's what all caring leads to, doesn't it?! _Love_! It's the weak man's emotion; the most vicious, destructive, inhibiting thing there is, and anyone who lets themselves feel it is an imbecile!"

"You should talk," said Sherlock, smirking as he made an intriguing deduction through his brother's eyes. "How's Lestrade, by the way?"

White hot anger pierced through every cell in Mycroft's body, and he pushed Sherlock outside of their small shelter and on to the muddy ground and tackled him.

The raindrops pounded into them like nails as the brothers wrestled, each trying to get the upper hand. Mycroft won, of course, like he wins everything. He pinned Sherlock down into the mud, holding onto his hair with angry force.

"ALL LIVES END!" He screamed over the storm. "ALL HEARTS ARE BROKEN! CARING IS NOT AN ADVANTAGE, SHERLOCK!" His voice shook as he said this, and it was clear that he was trying to convince himself as well as his brother.

In a heartbeat, Sherlock elbowed Mycroft in the side and escaped his grip. In another, he punched him in the face, sending him to the ground instead. "AND HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!"

"Simple," Mycroft kicked Sherlock's legs out from under him so that they were both on the ground once again. "I care about you, and what has that ever brought me? Endless pain and worry and disappointment, not to mention constant frustration at your stupidity!"

Sherlock swung again, but Mycroft grabbed his arm and flipped him over. Sherlock got right back up, however, and ran at him, tackling him to the ground. Once he had his older brother pinned, he attacked him with both fists. He hated Mycroft. He hated every atom of every molecule of every cell in his body. He wanted him to die.

Almost as soon as Sherlock had gained the advantage, he lost it when Mycroft flipped him backwards by his own arms. Stupid government training.

"You're not going to win this, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled over the next crash of thunder, and the confidence with which he said it only made Sherlock want to kill him more.

"I can fucking try!" He screamed back, running to tackle him once again.

The brothers fought in the rain for a ridiculous amount of time, neither willing to let the other win. They fought with words as well as fists, screaming obscenities at each other until their voices were hoarse. They fought until they forgot what they were fighting about, and then continued to fight just so a winner could be determined.

But there never was, because eventually they both became exhausted. It was when Sherlock was kicking Mycroft repeatedly on the ground that they met each other's eyes and declared a nonverbal truce. Muddy, out of breath, and covered in blood, the boys crawled back under the tin shelter and had a smoke.

Neither of them uttered a single word as they finished their cigarettes. Nor did they speak as they stumbled back to school together, even when Mycroft allowed Sherlock to lean on him because one of his ankles was sprained. And when they reached the building, just as the rain was finally quieting, they parted ways just as wordlessly.

__________________________

Seeing no need to go to English with only five minutes remaining, Sherlock limped back to his dorm to shower. As he turned the corner into the B hall, however, he found himself face to face with Jim Moriarty, whose hands- Sherlock noticed immediately- were even bloodier than his own.

Time seemed to freeze as the boys observed each other. Three seconds went by like three years.

_He is walking towards his dorm, not away from it. He was just in someone else's room. His suit is wrinkled and splattered with blood. His hands are bruised and bloody. But he has not been in a fight: his face is completely unharmed. More likely, he was ruthlessly attacking someone who could not fight back. An interrogation- no, a threat. Showing someone that he means business._

But before Sherlock could analyze him further, Moriarty shocked him by changing his surprised expression into a wide, shark's grin. Slowly, he lifted one bloody finger to his lips and whispered "Shhh." Then he continued on, leaving Sherlock feeling utterly bewildered and just a little bit afraid.

__________________________

Not wanting to run into his brother, Mycroft took the long way back to the B hall. Thankfully, by the time he reached his room, there was no one in sight.

He froze for a moment with his hand on the doorknob and said a silent prayer to the universe. _Please don't let him be here. Please don't let him be here._

He opened the door.

And there was Greg.

"Christ, Myc there you are!"

Mycroft groaned. "Where are you supposed to be?"

"Maths, but that doesn't matter! Where have you been and why the hell do you look like that?"

"My dear brother and I just had a little chat," Mycroft grumbled. "Why aren't you in class?"

"I- uh, well I...um," Greg stammered, seeming to lose his train of thought for a moment. "Well, I know you've been a bit stressed out lately, and....you know, I didn't see you at lunch, and when I came back you weren't here, and I....I got worried."

Mycroft paused in the doorway of the bathroom. Greg was worried about him?

"Besides, who needs maths, anyway?" Greg shrugged it off.

" _You_ do," Mycroft reminded him. "You're failing that class."

"I'm failing every class!" Greg snapped, just as the bell rang. "Except for French, and that's only because I have you to help me!"

There were a few awkward seconds of silence. Greg rarely lost his cool, blasé attitude when it came to school work. It appeared that he really did care underneath it all, however.

Embarrassed, Greg quickly regained his composure by flashing a crooked smile at Mycroft and nodding at him to move along. "Get yourself cleaned up, mate," he said. "You look like shit."

Mycroft chuckled despite himself, and went in to take a shower.

When he came out in a towel, he was surprised to find Greg still there, bent over his desk.

"You're not going to sixth period, either?"

"No, I will. I just have to finish up this-" Greg cut himself off when he looked up at Mycroft, who was still wearing only a towel around his waist. He had never seen his friend out of a suit before. His eyes widened. "Woah, nice- er, I mean," he blushed. "I...do you play sports?"

"What?" Mycroft looked down at his impressive abs, as if he had forgotten they existed. "Oh. Um, no actually. These were a result of basic training for my position. I usually don't care much for exercising."

"Uh huh," said Greg, still staring at his muscles. Mycroft, who had very little experience in being ogled at, did not notice. He just took some clothes into the bathroom to change.

As soon as he came out again, Greg said, "Hey Myc, can I ask you something?"

"I'd assume so," Mycroft replied, getting his bag ready to go to his next class (inconspicuously placing his gun in it as well).

"Are you....I mean, do you...I, uh," Greg sighed. "You're in chemistry, right?"

"Well, seeing as it was either that or biology, I went with the one that was less likely to make me want to kill myself."

Greg laughed nervously. "Then, can you help me with my homework really quick?"

Mycroft pretended to consider it. "Well let's see, I don't like to miss any important classes, so....it's a good thing I have English next." He pulled his chair up next to Greg. "But first, what were you really going to ask me?"

"What?"

"Greg, I'm not an idiot."

"Oh yeah," Greg paused, obviously racking his brains for a new question that he would pretend was his original. Mycroft sighed, but decided that if the boy lied again, he wouldn't push it.

"When did me calling you Myc stop bothering you?"

Pause. He was not expecting that. Now it was Mycroft's turn to lie, since he doubted _I think it's cute when you say it_ would yield pleasant results.

"I just....became used to it, I suppose."

"Oh."

Mycroft helped Greg with his chemistry homework and, for the first time, did not call him an idiot once.

He was positive that Greg noticed.

__________________________

John did not see Sherlock until Behavioral Corrections, when he met him back in their room.

"Hey, where were you during Eng- _what the bloody hell happened to you?"_ John changed questions mid sentence when he saw the multiple cuts and bruises on his friend's face, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No time. Moriarty has an unwilling accomplice, and we need to find out who it is before Mycroft does!"

"Wha- how did you- did Moriarty do that to you?" John asked, as he dug his medical kit out of his bag.

Sherlock waved him off. "No, it was Mycroft. Relax, I'll be fine."

 _"Mycroft_ did this? What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We had a disagreement. It's alright though, I got a few good hits in myself. And I've already examined myself: nothing worse than a sprained ankle."

Despite his protests, John examined his injuries. Sherlock tried to ignore the shivers he felt at his touch. How his warm hands felt so incredibly soft on his face-

Fuck.

"John, I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, trying to push John away from him. "I just hope my coat comes out of the dry cleaner's all right."

John stared at him in disbelief. "You got beat up, and your worried about your _coat_?"

"It's a good coat, John."

Sigh. "Some of these need to be disinfected. Hold on," he grabbed some kind of cream from his kit. "Alright, hold still."

"John, really I'm _fine,_ " Sherlock protested, panicking as John gingerly rubbed the ointment over the places where his skin had broken open. His touch was so gentle and caring, and Sherlock craved more.

_Fuck._

"You were saying something?" John reminded him once he finished. "About Moriarty?"

"What? Oh yes, right! On my way back here I ran into him and deduced that he had just returned from a rather brutal confrontation, which he had undoubtedly won. Since then, I've done some research," he motioned to his laptop, "and compiled a list of all inhabitants of the rooms in the opposite direction of where I encountered him, which, unfortunately, includes the A hall-"

"Wait, hold on!" John stopped him. "Do you really think he'd beat up a girl?"

Sherlock stared at him like he was being an idiot, which probably meant that he was. "John, must I bring up the fact that he _burned his sister alive_? Goodness knows you bring it up every time I suggest confronting him. I think at this point, we can accept that Jim Moriarty is capable of anything."

John blushed. "Right....yeah."

"Anyway," Sherlock continued excitedly. "I should only have to study this list for a few hours to figure out who he is threatening. I will, of course, need to be left completely alone during this time."

"Hold on," said John, the incident from earlier coming back to him suddenly. "Speaking of people being threatened, I met Molly's roommate today, and I'm a bit worried about her situation-"

But Sherlock, already completely absorbed in the list of students on his laptop, waved him off. "John, whatever you're blabbering about is, I'm sure, completely irrelevant to what I am focusing on now, and I would appreciate it very much if you would leave me be."

John sighed, knowing better than to push the issue. He could bring it up later. For now, he sat on the corner of his bed and pretended to be completely immersed in his novel for English class. In reality, however, he was doing what he did all too often lately: watching the brilliant Sherlock Holmes out of the corner of his eye and imagining what it would be like to kiss him.

__________________________

The water in the sink ran red as Jim washed his hands of the stupid boy's dried blood. To him this was the most tedious part: erasing the evidence. He still had to hand wash the several bloodstains out of his suit. If only that boy hadn't been so difficult....

But no matter. He had what he wanted now.

Just as he finished scrubbing his skin of the filth, Sebastian burst into the bathroom, even more of a mess than Jim had been.

"Christ, there you are!" Jim shouted, irritably. "What the hell took you so long?"

"Well you left me to clean up the mess on my own, didn't you?" Seb bit back, turning on the second faucet in the bathroom to clean his own hands. "I was lucky the kid stayed passed out for as long as it took me to scrub the blood out of his wall!"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Quit your whining; you're the one who wanted to help me. Besides, you still have work to do after this."

Seb grumbled to himself as he disinfected his skin up to his forearms. When the boys were finished cleaning themselves up, setting aside their bloodstained clothes to take care of later, Jim sat at his desk to look through some old files while Seb stood aside to wait for directions. "What's my next job, you're highness?" He muttered sarcastically.

Jim chuckled. "Nothing much. I just need you to go check in with Irene-"

Seb interrupted him with a load, obnoxious groan. "UGGGGH. I hate her!"

"As do I, Seb, but she is valuable."

"Then why can't you do it?!" He protested.

"Because you are here specifically to do things that I don't want to do." Jim stated simply. "Now hurry, while her roommate is at dinner."

"You're lucky you're my best friend," Seb grumbled, stalking out of the room.

Jim chuckled. "Love you Seb!"

"Yeah yeah." He slammed the door behind him.

As soon as he was alone, Jim's demeanor changed from smooth and composed to irritated and utterly defeated. He slumped down in his seat, staring at his oldest file of Sherlock Holmes.

He could still remember the day his father gave it to him, after discovering it amongst the stack of files he had stolen from the British Secret Service. Files of possible future recruits. "Look at this one, Jim," he had told his son. "This boy is your age." He had tossed the file to Jim, who had looked it over with curiosity and discovered that he had quite a bit more in common with this Sherlock Holmes than just age.

He had always thought that he was the only twelve-year-old on Earth who was interested in the science of deduction, but apparently not. _Here is a boy,_ Jim remembered thinking. _Who might just be my match!_

And that was the beginning of his obsession. But certainly not where it ended, oh no, not even close. Because Jim learned a lot more about Sherlock Holmes over the next few months, including what the boy looked like, and he found that the more he knew about him, the more his feelings began to....change. 

And he hated it.

Now, Jim glared down at the picture in the front of Sherlock's file, recalling their brief meeting in the hallway a little while ago. How even under all the mud and bruises, Sherlock maintained a certain mystifying look about him, with wide pupils separating seas of grey and raven curls gloriously framing his stone-like face...

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim whispered, his pulse racing at the mere sensation of the boy's name on his lips. "You will pay for what you've done to me."

 


	9. Trouble

"JOHN, IVE GOT IT!"

John woke with a start at the sound of his roommate's voice. He checked the clock: 7:15 am. Sherlock had been in his mind palace all night.

Irritated by his friend's lack of reaction, Sherlock flipped the light on. John flinched, blinded by it's brightness. "Didn't you hear me? I'VE FIGURED IT OUT!"

"Shhh, be quiet. Just give me a sec to wake up, would you?"

Sherlock waited impatiently while John rubbed his eyes and stretched before finally sitting all the way up in bed. It was only then that he looked properly excited. "So you've really figured out who Moriarty is threatening?"

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, showing John his pages and pages of notes. "And it only took me fourteen hours to narrow it down from 274 suspects to one! A bit longer than I had hoped, to be honest, but I'm absolutely sure-"

"Well who is it?!" John wanted to know. But before Sherlock could answer, the intercom sounded above them:

_"Good morning students, I apologize for the early announcement. I need Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to report to the headmaster's office immediately! Holmes and Watson, to the headmaster's office!_

"Fuck," Sherlock muttered, looking as if he knew exactly what was going on.

"What? What did we do?" John asked, completely baffled.

" _You_ did nothing, John," said Sherlock with a sigh. Moriarty's plan was starting to make a lot more sense to him now. "Except associate yourself with me."

__________________________

Sherlock waited by the door for John to get dressed, since he himself was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, and then the boys proceeded to their doom.

On the way there, John tried to get some answers out of Sherlock. "What the hell is going on?" He kept asking. "Why are we in trouble?"

But all Sherlock had to say was, "It's all apart of Moriarty's game, John. Just relax and let me do the talking."

But John did not relax; by the time they reached their destination, his heart was hammering in his chest and felt like he was going to faint from anxiety.

"Calm down John," Sherlock whispered once they stood outside the door. "We'll be okay. I promise." Then, without thinking about it, he reached over and squeezed John's hand.

Then the boys entered the office, and it was only once he saw who was sitting there that John began to piece together what Sherlock had ages ago.

In one of the three chairs in front of the headmaster's desk sat none other than Viktor, their very first bully at this school. Only he was covered in cuts and bruises, and did not appear nearly as scary as he had months before. Probably because he looked so scared himself.

"Sit down, boys," the headmaster said, his face unreadable as he motioned the boys to the two remaining chairs. They sat, and Sherlock immediately started making deductions.

The headmaster was a short, round, and balding man named Mr. Harvey. Though Sherlock and probably two thirds of the student population were at least a head taller than him, he had a certain aura of intimidation about him, as well as a glare so frightening that even the school's biggest delinquents have been known to squirm under it.

Sherlock, however, was not the slightest bit intimidated as he sat himself in between Viktor and John. He knew exactly how this was going to go down.

Mr. Harvey stared at the boys for some time, as if waiting for John and Sherlock to confess, before finally speaking.  "I assume you boys know why you are here-"

"We didn't do anything!" John interrupted. "We swear on our lives!"

"God dammit, John," Sherlock sighed.

"Silence, both of you!" Harvey yelled. Then, quite calmly, he turned to Viktor. "Mr. Jacobsen, why don't you recount the story that you told me earlier?"

Viktor gulped, shaking in fear. Despite the way he had treated him and John at the beginning of the year, Sherlock could not help but feel sorry for the boy. Moriarty must have roughed him up pretty badly to make him this frightened.

"I-I was just minding my own business in my, uh, i-in my room when out of....out of nowhere _-_ " Viktor raised a shaking hand and pointed at Sherlock, " _he_ came in and started.....he....he started hitting me and..."

He stammered on, obviously very afraid. But not, Sherlock knew, of anyone in this room.

"It's alright, Viktor," Harvey said, sympathetically. "He can't hurt you here."

"I _didn't_ hurt him," Sherlock insisted, even knowing that it wouldn't do him any good. This man was an idiot. "It was Jim Moriarty."

"Really?" Harvey asked with raised eyebrows, staring intently at Sherlock so he didn't notice how Viktor flinched at the boy's name. "You seem oddly sure of this."

"He's been out to get me since the school year started," Sherlock explained. "He's also been observing me from the beginning. Presumably, he noticed that Viktor was the first person I didn't get along with and thought it would be clever to brutally harm him. He obviously threatened him with even more intense violence if he didn't blame the attack on me."

Viktor was staring at him in awe, subconsciously nodding along with the explanation, but still Harvey had eyes only for Sherlock. "....interesting. Very specific. You seem to have given much thought to this explanation."

"I have, and I'm 100 percent positive of it's accuracy."

"Really?" Harvey's tone matched that of a parent who was entertaining a particularly imaginative story from their child. "Well, would you like to know what I think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not really, since I'm sure it's both idiotic and incorrect."

John did a literal facepalm, while Harvey's intense gaze grew even more fierce. "That was a rhetorical question, Holmes."

"Oh."

Harvey stood up from his chair, dramatically slow, and leaned over the desk so that he was less than a foot from Sherlock's face. The boy did not drop his eyes in fear, but stared right back at the headmaster with equal intensity.

"Based on what I've heard," Harvey practically whispered, "both from your teachers and Mr. Jacobsen here, I think you are more than intelligent enough to come up with a story like that on the spot. I also think you are a liar. An evil, rotten, devious little liar."

John and Viktor were frozen in their seats, mesmerized by the confrontation going on between them, and for about five seconds you could have heard a pin drop in the office.

"On the contrary," Sherlock retorted just as quietly, "I am quite probably the most honest person in this room."

"Did you attack Mr. Jacobsen?"

"No."

"You didn't give him these bruises?"

"No."

"Then why are you also covered in bruises?"

"I fought with my older brother yesterday."

"Well, what a coincidence."

"Yes, actually, it is."

"Can you prove it?"

"Better than you can prove your accusation."

Harvey leaned back in frustration. He shuffled through some papers on his desk, grumbling under his breath. He was obviously searching desperately for something- anything- to use against the boy. Here was a man, deduced Sherlock, who detested nothing more than being proven wrong and looking stupid. And right now, Sherlock was making him out to be both.

"Where were you during your last Behavioral Corrections class?"  Harvey demanded, randomly.

"In my room."

"Why?"

"Because the class is bollucks, and I wouldn't sit through it if you paid me."

"You have perfect marks in all your other classes."

"Yes, that sounds about right."

"Are you a cheater, Mr. Holmes?"

"Nope. Just more intelligent than all of my teachers combined."

The room grew quiet and still once more, as neither Harvey nor Sherlock wished to back down and accept defeat. The original intent of the meeting seemed to have been long forgotten, as it had now turned in to a battle of the wills between Mr. Harvey and Sherlock.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't expel you right now," Harvey said, with narrowed eyes.

"Simple: you have no probable cause."

"You attacked Mr. Jacobsen."

"You have no proof."

"How do you know I won't.... _happen_ to find some?" Harvey asked with a smirk, his tone making it all too clear what he was implying.

Sherlock, however, smirked back and pulled a small, grey device out of his pocket: a tape recorder. "I think I'm safe," he said.

Harvey's smile dropped. In the same moment, the tension eased and Viktor and John relaxed. It was clear who had won.

However, the look on Harvey's face as he eagerly dismissed the boys made it clear that this was not over.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose it's time that you boys be off to your classes. But know this, Mr. Holmes: until I figure out what exactly is going on around here, I will be having your teachers keep a very, _very_ close watch over you. _Both_ of you," he turned to John suddenly. "Don't think I don't know you're involved in this somehow as well, mister Watson. And if not....well, you hang around Sherlock Holmes too much for your own good."

John stayed silent, taking that as their cue to leave. Knowing how much his friend enjoyed having the last word, however, John expected Sherlock to give Harvey one last smart arse response. But instead, the clever boy simply nodded and exited the office silently with John and Viktor.

__________________________

"Are you sure you want to do this _now_?" Greg asked nervously, as he tried to keep up with Mycroft's brisk pace down the B hall.

"I should have done it weeks ago," Mycroft responded simply, still staring straight ahead of him as he walked with purpose. And it was true. He had delayed this for too long, and he wasn't even sure why anymore. Consequences be damned. It was time to kill Jim Moriarty.

"Wait! Come on Myc, let's think about this." Greg put a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to stop him, but Mycroft shrugged him off.

"Mycroft, _calm down._ Just because Sherlock was called to Harvey's office doesn't mean Moriarty had anything to do with it!"

Mycroft stopped dead, despite himself. _Sherlock_. Even sixteen hours after their fight, the mere thought of his brother brought on a tsunami of stupid emotions: anger, frustration, annoyance, guilt, shame, sadness. Everything painful. But most of all, he was worried beyond belief. Sherlock was in trouble, and he was positive that Moriarty was involved somehow.

But it wasn't as if he had shared any of this with Lestrade.

"How do you know that's why I'm going?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh please. You think you're so mysterious, but I can read you like a book. It's obvious that you care about your brother, no matter how much you two fight."

Mycroft blushed, but chose to ignore his last statement. "I've been suspecting that Moriarty was looking to frame Sherlock for some time. It's the only reason he would wait so long to act. Of course, my brother _would_ be too stupid to realize this himself–" he cut himself off suddenly, detecting the sound of footsteps coming from around the corner.

Then, there were voices:

"All I'm saying is that-"

"I get what you're saying, and I don't want to hear it!"

"Come on, it's a good plan! Just because it's not _your_ stupid idea-"

"I'm warning you, shut up!"

Panicking, Mycroft opened the door of the nearest supply cupboard. Thankfully, it was unlocked. He grabbed Greg by the arm and pulled him into the darkened space with him, moving the door so that they couldn't be seen, but could still see and hear what was going on in the hall.

"What are you-?"

"Shhh!" Mycroft quieted his friend, trying to listen. Yes, the voices were getting closer. And one of them was definitely Moriarty's.

" _Please_ Jim, just hear me out," begged a female voice that Mycroft thought he recognized from somewhere. "If we do it my way everything will get taken care of much quicker: The older one would be dealt with, Sherlock would go to prison, and we'd be on the run by the end of the week–"

"I don't _want_ Sherlock to go to prison," Moriarty said in a tone both fierce and finalizing. They were still out of his line of vision, but Mycroft was sure that the girl flinched at the sound of it. "I want him _dead."_

"Alright, alright, keep your pants on! It was just an idea," the girl backtracked. Although she hid it rather well, she was obviously afraid of Moriarty and did not want to make him mad.

Their voices grew louder as the two came closer to Mycroft's and Greg's hiding place. Mycroft held his breath, eager to see the face of Moriarty's female companion. Why was her voice so familiar?

"Well you're not here to share your ideas," Moriarty responded. "You know why you're here...."

The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. First, there they were: Jim Moriarty and a tall girl with wavy brown hair whom Mycroft immediately recognized as Irene Adler (or The Woman, as she was known throughout the criminal world). Astonished to see her here when he had sworn she was last rumored to be hiding in America, Mycroft leaned forward, briefly exposing his face through the crack in the door.

At that moment, Irene dropped her handbag and it's contents spilled onto the floor: a makeup compact, a tube of lipgloss, a comb, a cream-colored wallet decorated with red hearts, a 9mm pistol, something small and round that looked suspiciously like a smoke bomb, and four syringes full of a clear liquid (the purpose of which, Mycroft cringed to think about).

Cursing, Irene bent down to quickly pick up the mess. Moriarty rolled his eyes at her clumsiness, but stopped to wait for her, and it was then that his eyes met Mycroft's.

For a split second, all molecular motion seemed to cease. Mycroft swore that he could hear Greg's heartbeat behind him, even through the pounding of his own. _Pull out your gun!_ His mind was screaming at him. _Do it! Shoot him now!_ But his body wouldn't move, and something else was telling him that it wasn't the right time. That killing Moriarty now would only seal his brother's fate.

And just like that, the second was over. Irene straightened up, all of her possessions safely returned to her handbag, and Moriarty glanced away.

"Well? Do you have more things to drop or can we move on now?" He asked Irene sarcastically, as if that last second had never happened. As if he had never even noticed Mycroft.

"Shut up, you arsehole, it was an accident! Besides, it's not like anyone saw us," she bit back, even as she scanned the hall nervously. "Everyone's at breakfast."

"Of course," said Moriarty confidently, and Mycroft wondered if he had simply imagined being seen.

Just before the duo walked away, however, Moriarty added, "And even if someone _did_ happen to see us, I'm sure he's smart enough to realize that he will be the first one to die."

They shared a laugh and continued on to their room, leaving Mycroft and Greg to sit in the darkened supply cupboard in stunned silence, working desperately to calm down their hearts and to summon the courage to leave.

__________________________

 _It's amazing how quickly word spreads throughout a large group of bored adolescents,_ Sherlock remarked mentally as he was confronted by a random student for the fifth time before first period.

"Is it true that you beat up Viktor Jacobsen?" Asked an eager boy who stopped him and John in the hallway.

"No, but I'm sure your idiot mind will believe whatever it wants to."

"You're kind of a prick. I think you _did_ beat him up!"

"And there you go," he sighed, calmly moving around the kid and proceeding to chemistry.

John did not respond to the false accusations as calmly as Sherlock did. "Bugger off!" He told the kid, shoving him aside as he followed Sherlock.

The second they entered the chemistry classroom, the boys were greeted by an obnoxious shriek from Philip Anderson. "Watch out everyone, here comes Sherlock!" He cried in pretend fright. "Don't make eye contact, or you might be next on his list!"

Most of the class laughed, following Anderson's lead and ducking under their desks as Sherlock passed them to get to his seat.

Molly was the only one who didn't mimic the rest, instead scooting her desk closer to Sherlock's so that she could talk to him.

"Careful, Hooper," Anderson warned with a grin. "The kid's vicious. Who's to say he wouldn't hit girls, too? I heard–"

"Fuck off, Anderson. Don't you have a dermatologist appointment to get to?" Molly cut him off, cruelly. The class laughed louder that they had when taunting Sherlock, and Anderson's acne-scarred face turned bright red as he reluctantly slunk off.

Molly's expression changed from annoyed to worried as she turned back to Sherlock. "It's not true, is it?" She whispered. "You didn't beat up Viktor?"

John couldn't believe that she would even ask, but Sherlock didn't seem offended.

"Of course not," he responded, and then proceeded to explain that he had spent all of last night making deductions, and had figured out that Moriarty had done it specifically to frame him.

Molly visually relaxed. "I knew that it wasn't you. I just had to double check. So, what did you tell Mr. Harvey?"

"Exactly what I just told you," Sherlock explained. "But I'm sure you can guess how that turned out."

Molly nodded, obviously wishing to say something comforting, but was forced to turn forward in her seat when the bell rang.

It was only when Dixon walked in and started taking attendance that Sherlock noticed the empty seat behind him. Mycroft was missing.

 _Good,_ Sherlock thought, memories of yesterday's fight flooding back to him. He never wanted to see his brother again. _Wherever he is, I hope that's where he stays._

But as the hour ticked by and Mycroft didn't show up, Sherlock found himself growing increasingly anxious. Where the hell was he?

Sometime in the middle of Dixon's tedious lecture, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He had to go look for him.

"May I be excused?" He blurted out, without raising his hand.

Dixon narrowed his eyes. "Why? Got more innocent students to send to the hospital?"

"No, I just need to–"

"I don't think so, mister Holmes. Harvey told me to keep a close eye on you, and after what you've done, I don't blame him. I told him that I've always known you were nothing more than a delinquent. For the rest of the year, you are forbidden from leaving my class until you have to report to your next one. I will not have you causing anymore trouble at this school."

Dixon continued his lecture as students snickered under their breath. Meanwhile, Sherlock seethed. He couldn't give any less fucks what his fellow students believed about him, but when a false accusation started stripping him of his rights, that's when he got pissed off.

John nudged him, raising his eyebrows. _What's wrong?_ He was asking, telepathically.

Sherlock sighed and motioned to his brother's empty seat.

John nodded sympathetically. In the corner of his notebook, he scrawled a note to Sherlock: _Don't worry. I'm sure he's fine._

Sherlock wasn't convinced. However, he didn't really want to think about his brother anymore. He picked up John's pencil and wrote back: _I need a distraction. Something to get my mind off things. What should I do?_

John read the note and thought for a moment before answering.

_Actually pay attention in class for once?_

_Boring._

_Go to your mind palace and develop the cure for cancer?_

_Tedious._

_After class, we could sneak into Harvey's office and paint the seat of his chair with shoe polish._

_Nah, too easy._

John chuckled under his breath, and pretty soon the passing of the notebook became a distraction within itself.

_Well, we could always hunt down some cocaine to experiment with._

Sherlock smirked. _Been there, done that,_ he responded. _Any other ideas?_

_I don't know, Sherlock. What do you want to do?_

Sherlock contemplated this question. What _did_ he want to do?

_Honestly....I just want to leave. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere far away from everyone._

Slightly hurt by this, John asked, _Even me?_

Sherlock answered immediately. _Alright, except you._

John grinned. _Excellent! We can run away together. Ditch Baskerville's and live out the rest of our adolescence as fugitives._

_Sounds like a plan. When should we leave?_

_RIGHT NOW._

_Alright. Let's go._

_Alright._

_Alright._

Neither boy left their seat, however. Of course they knew that they couldn't _really_ run away from their problems. But that didn't stop them from grinning ear to ear as they silently entertained the prospect.

Underneath their table, John found himself reaching for Sherlock's hand and grasping it.

Sherlock did not object.

__________________________

Mycroft was sure that he and Greg had been sitting silently in the dark cupboard for over half an hour before one of them finally spoke.

"' _He will be the first to die'???_ What the hell does that mean?!"

"What do you think it means, Greg?" Mycroft growled. "I overheard his plans. He's going to kill me."

"Well, not if you kill him first!" Greg shouted. By now Mycroft's eyes had entirely adjusted to the dark, and he could see that his friend's face was etched in panic. "Come on, what are you waiting for, let's go kill him!"

"He'll be in class already, you idiot. The bell rang ages ago."

"....Oh."

And that little, insignificant, two-letter word was what did it. Not the realization that Moriarty was going to kill both him and his brother, and he had no idea how to stop it. No, it was that word– breathed out by his stupidly attractive roommate in his stupidly sexy voice, and what it did to his heart– that broke Mycroft Holmes.

His temper flared up beyond belief. "But of course, why would you care?!" He yelled, making Greg jump. "You're so stupid, you're failing every class! You don't care about anything but sports and looking cool and following me around everywhere I fucking go! You know something, Lestrade? Ever since I met you my life has been a living HELL!! I swear, being around you has made me so STUPID! More so than I ever thought possible! When you're in the room, I can't focus! I can't think straight! I forget who I fucking _am_ half the time, that's how stupid you've made me!!! If it weren't for you, I would've killed Moriarty before he had a chance to put a plan into place! But you slowed me down! And now my little brother and I are both screwed! AND IT'S ALL THANKS TO YOU!!!"

Silence.

"....Where the bloody hell did that come from?" Greg asked quietly, his voice shaking. "Have you always felt like this?"

Mycroft didn't answer, still breathing heavily and trying to figure out why the fuck he had just said all of that. Sure, he was pissed off by everything that was going on, but he didn't blame Greg. He just took it out on him because....well, because being with Greg forced him to feel. And he hated it.

Slowly but confidently, Greg stood up. "Well, I had no idea I was such a burden to you. I really wish you would've told me sooner, before I–" he cut himself off with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am. I'm sorry I've wasted so much time and energy getting to know you, when you've never cared about me at all. I'm....I'm sorry."

And with that, Greg threw open the door and ran.

Mycroft almost followed him, but stopped himself in the doorway. What was the point? He would only make things worse.

Filled with sorrow and wanting nothing more than to die on the spot, Mycroft closed the door, shutting himself back into the darkened cupboard.

__________________________

Much like every other student in the school with more than a single brain cell, Jim never attended the required Behavioral Corrections class. Instead, he often spent first period roaming the empty hallways, thinking and plotting.

On this particular day he was in the process of deciding how he was going to go about the next phase of his plan, when suddenly he was interrupted by loud sobbing coming from down the hall.

Always intrigued by the misfortune of others, Jim followed the sound all the way to an empty classroom just off of the history wing. There, crumpled up underneath the windowsill and looking quite miserable, was an older boy Jim recognized as Greg Lestrade, captain of the football team and often seen hanging around–

"FUCKING. MYCROFT. HOLMES!" He cried out in anger suddenly, kicking aside the nearest desk. He then put his head in his hands and continued sobbing even louder.

Meanwhile, just outside the door, Jim was grinning wider than a greedy child on Christmas morning. This....hell, finding the Holmes boys' weaknesses was already easy enough, but _this_....this was too much.

He had to hold back a joyous cackle as he tip-toed away from the room with the sobbing boy, eager to share this latest development with Seb and Irene.

If possible, Jim's convoluted plan had just become even more interesting.

 


	10. Halloween Night

"What should I read next, John?" Sherlock asked, out of nowhere. He spoke so randomly, in fact, that a startled John slid his pen across his paper mid-sentence, ruining his English essay.

John sighed and turned his desk chair toward his friend, who was hanging upside down from his bed and looking quite bored. "I don't know, Sherlock. I'm out of recommendations."

"Come on, you must have something!"

"I've already given you every novel I own."

It was true. After finishing the Harry Potter series, Sherlock was forced to conclude that fantasy novels were  fantastic, and quite good at helping him forget about his problems for awhile. And since goodness knows he needed that at the moment, he had taken to borrowing books from John to read in his spare time.

Sherlock groaned. "But John, I'm so booooored."

"Well I wish I could help you Sherlock, but I really need to work on this essay." John said, reaching beneath his desk for a fresh piece of paper.

"You haven't finished it yet?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"It was assigned to us yesterday!"

"Yeah, and I finished mine during her tedious lecture about the book I read when I was six. It was really quite simple–"

"Oh bugger off, Sherlock!"

Smirking, Sherlock sat up at last, his face warm with the blood that had rushed to his head from being upside down for so long. As fun as it was to be a smart arse just to annoy John, he knew that it'd be more polite to give his friend space while he was doing his homework. Because he cared about being polite now, for some reason.

Well, of course he knew the reason.

"I'm going for a walk," Sherlock said.

John grunted in response, not looking up from his homework, so Sherlock was able to stealthily grab his pack of cigarettes from John's dresser before slipping out the door.

It was Halloween, and a quarter past six in the evening, which meant that the majority of his fellow students were at dinner. Sherlock was glad to be able to walk through the halls without the annoying sound of whispers and people scattering to avoid him.

In the week since Sherlock had been blamed for the assault of Viktor Jacobsen, the boy's usually sharp mind had been quite scattered and unfocused. All he could think about anymore was how nearly everyone in the school was convinced that he was a bloodthirsty psychopath. Add this to the fact that he still wasn't speaking to his brother, AND that his confusing feelings for his roommate hadn't gone away, the young genius could hardly focus on anything, let alone trying to deduce Moriarty's next move.

Sherlock sighed in frustration as he continued wandering the hall with his eyes on the ground, hardly looking where he was going.

Until, that is, he walked right smack into another person, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

"Agh!" Sherlock cried. "Watch where you're–" but then he saw.

It was Mycroft. But he was hardly recognizable. His eyes were puffy and red and his face held greater sadness than Sherlock had ever seen in his brother.

For just a moment, he forgot that he hated him. "Jesus Mycroft, are you alright?" He asked, offering a hand to help him up.

But Mycroft, evidently, remembered. His eyes changed from despondent to hate-filled in a millisecond, and he smacked his brother's hand away. "I'm fine! Why don't you watch where you're going, prick!" And he had stood up and stalked away before Sherlock could think of a comeback better than _I know you are, but what am I?_

God, he was slipping.

Sherlock continued his trek of the hallways, pulling a cigarette out of his pack in an effort to drown out his sorrows. But before he could make it outside, he was stopped yet again. This time, by someone completely unfamiliar.

The hand that pushed against his chest, stopping him in his tracks, was a manicured one with fingernails painted the same blood-red as her lips. The hand belonged to a girl who could hardly be called a girl; everything about her was so....womanly.

But also, Sherlock noted, extremely vicious.

"Hey there sexy," she whispered provocatively, tucking a long strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear. "You're Sherlock, right? Sherlock Holmes?" She breathed his name in a tone that might've brought any other teenaged boy to his knees.

Sherlock, however, was not any teenaged boy.

"Do I know you?" He snapped. This was the second time in a row he'd been stopped on his way to smoke, and he was starting to feel the nicotine withdrawal.

While the girl seemed disappointed by his lack of reaction to her obvious flirting, she did a pretty good job at not letting it show. "No..." she responded, without missing a beat. She inched herself closer to him, her lips forming a smile as she did so. "Which is a real shame, because _I_ would definitely like to know _you_."

Sherlock was speechless. What game was this girl playing at?

He was about to tell her to fuck off when she surprised him. Out of nowhere, the girl grabbed his shirt collar and forced him back against the wall. Holy shit, she was stronger than she looked.

Sherlock could've easily fought back and overpowered her, but there was a certain emotion behind the deviousness in her bright blue eyes that stopped him. Fear? Or was it a warning?

The girl pressed her body against his so that every inch of their torsos was touching. She reached for his right hand (which had dropped the cigarette at some point) and deposited a slip of paper into it, while making sure there was as much contact between their fingers as possible.

She then yanked Sherlock's head close with urgency and put her lips right up against his ear.

"I'm not supposed to be doing this," she whispered. "But I like you. And I tend to want the people I like alive. Come over tonight if you want answers."

She then kissed Sherlock with such force that he honestly thought the breath would be sucked out of him. He flailed helplessly against the wall as she attacked him with her mouth, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair and her leg wrapping itself around his waist.

She ended it with a loud smack, finally prying their faces apart. "Goodbye, my love," she breathed, and walked away without another word, leaving Sherlock leaning against the wall to avoid falling over and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

After several seconds of attempting to restart his heart, Sherlock opened up the paper in his hand to read it.

 _Halloween Party_  
_8pm tonight_  
_Room 231 A_  
_ Don't _ _bring a friend ;)_

If Sherlock's train of thought had been malfunctioning before, it was completely derailed now.

All desire to have a smoke forgotten, Sherlock turned frantically and raced back to his dorm.

__________________________

It should not have bothered Mycroft that his roommate hadn't so much as looked at him in over a week. He shouldn't have even noticed that Greg was no longer suave and witty with him, that he never made jokes or asked those bothersome questions anymore, or that the crooked smile that Mycroft had come to love no longer flashed his way.

He should not have noticed. He should not have cared. He wasn't _supposed_ to.

So why did he?

 _Because you love the stupid git,_ Mycroft's irritating subconscious reminded him, as he brought his cigarette to his lips and took a deep inhale. _His stupid hair and his stupid guitar playing and that stupid sheepish grin of his that you miss so much. You love him._

"Yes," Mycroft allowed himself to say out loud. He was too exhausted to keep trying to convince himself otherwise. "I love him."

Luckily, there was no one around to hear him. He was smoking by the same tin shed that he and Sherlock had fought under the last time it rained. The day before everything went to hell.

It wasn't raining now, but Mycroft noted low rumbles of thunder in the distance, and England's normally ashen grey sky had taken on its pre-storm chromium shade. The boy found himself yearning desperately for the rain to come down already. He wanted it to pour down right as he was standing in the open and wash him away from this damned place.

Another quiet rumble, and a brief flash in the distance. Maybe if he opened his umbrella, the lightening would find him and strike him down.

Sighing, Mycroft discarded the remainder of his cigarette and started back the way he came, his mind wandering away from the coming storm and back to Greg Lestrade. It always went back to him eventually, nowadays.

Mycroft did not blame his roommate in the least for hating him. The things he had yelled that day in the supply cupboard out of pure frustration had been awful, many would say unforgiveable. Still, Mycroft had considered apologizing several times over the past week, and had almost done so on some occasions. Except every time he'd made eye contact with Greg since that day, the latter had given him a glare so full of rage, Mycroft had to look away.

He just had to accept it, there was no going back from what he had said. Mycroft had obliterated the first, and probably only true friendship he would ever have, with nothing but his toxic words and naturally abhorrent personality. And it only took a couple of months.

 _God, what a talent_ , Mycroft thought, so full of contempt for himself that he was nearly unable to contain a derisive laugh. But he was right outside his dorm room by now, and any urge to even mock himself was washed away by a wave of anxiety.

Greg would still be there, he knew it. His roommate had barely gone to meals all week, choosing instead to sleep in late and go to bed early. When he _was_ awake, he would still spend most of his time in bed, tossing his football in the air, but with none of the carefree cheerfulness he had once displayed. Instead, his countenance would change from bitterly morose to one so depressed that just seeing him made Mycroft want to pitch himself off the roof.

He was not eager to see which one he wore now. Still, he had to see him eventually, so Mycroft took a deep breath and opened the door.

Greg was lying face up on his bed, but turned quickly to the side in an attempt to hide his face when Mycroft entered. A second too late, as Mycroft was still sure he saw tears streaming down the boy's cheeks.

A strong and sudden pain shot through Mycroft's chest. He couldn't take this anymore. The fact that this boy– this sweet and handsome boy who did not even deserve the displeasure of _knowing_ Mycroft– had been crying over him....it was almost too much to bear.

"Greg," whispered Mycroft, his first word to the boy since all the awful ones he had said before. His voice cracked. "We need to talk."

Greg lay unmoving in his bed, facing the wall. Mycroft didn't think he would respond until he muttered, in an equally unstable voice, "About what?"

Mycroft almost smiled, he was so glad to hear his voice! But there was nothing to smile about yet. "This...this silence. It's eating me alive."

Greg scoffed dismissively, still not bothering to look in his direction. "Really? Since when? Have you finally gotten bored not having anyone to make fun of? Run out of people who can tolerate being called an idiot every five seconds, have you?"

"I...." Mycroft had no response to that. It was no use pretending that he hadn't been a shitty friend to begin with. And it wasn't like he could tell Greg that the only reason he was so cruel to him was to cover up his true feelings.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Greg muttered before falling silent again.

Mycroft tried again. "Really I...I need to apologize, Greg. I need you to know how truly sorry I am–"

Greg surprised Mycroft by sitting upright suddenly and facing him. His red, swollen eyes– full of the utmost disdain for their target– stared straight into him. "Bullshit, Mycroft! Bull-fucking-shit! You're _sorry_?! Sorry for what, for saying that I've basically ruined your life? That I'm so annoying and stupid it's practically contagious? You were just telling me the truth, weren't you? Everything you've thought about me this whole time? So what the bloody hell have _you_ got to be _sorry_ about?!"

"Greg, I never-"

But Greg wasn't finished. He left his bed and began pacing the room anxiously. He had clearly needed to say this for a long time. "If anything, _I'm_ the one who should be sorry! I've been nothing but a burden to you since the day we met, and you've got enough on your plate, haven't you?!" He yelled the words with all the anger he could muster, but surprisingly, there was not a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "You know, I always suspected you never really liked me. How the hell could someone as smart as you want to even be _near_ someone as stupid as me?"

"You're not-"

"No, it's fine, I get it!" Greg shouted. "You hate me, so I've done you a favor and quit talking to you! I even requested to be moved to a different room-"

"You what?" Mycroft did the interrupting this time, horrified.

"I tried, but there was nothing open for them to move me to. That's the only reason you're still stuck with me. But if someone gets kicked out or something, don't worry. I'll be first in line to move into their room."

"Greg, _please_ listen to me," Mycroft begged. "I know that I hurt you, and I'm sorry! Believe me, I can't express how sorry I am. But I don't want you to leave." And as Mycroft said it, he knew it was true. Even though he had tried to distance himself when he realized he had feelings for Greg, there was no way he could live without seeing him everyday at this point. "You're the only person I've ever really wanted to be around!"

Greg just shook his head in disbelief, taking a step back. "Why are you still pretending to care about me?" he asked, his voice filled with pain. "You've made your feelings clear already. We may be roommates, but you don't have to talk to me ever again. I know that you hate me, that you think I'm stupid and you wish you'd never met me. Why are you pretending now? Honestly, what are you gaining from this?"

"I'm _not_ pretending, Greg. I've _never_ pretended," Mycroft groaned in exhaustion. Why couldn't Greg believe that he was sorry? But then again, he hardly deserved to be forgiven, did he? "You need to understand that everything I said that day, all those horrible things that I know hurt you, I only said out of frustration. They were _lies_!"

Greg stared, analyzing him. He looked as if he wanted to believe Mycroft, but was too scared of being hurt and humiliated again. "Yeah? And what were you so frustrated about that made you take it out on me?"

Mycroft paused, unsure of what to say. Was he brave enough yet to tell the truth? Was he ready to profess his love and risk being rejected, just so Greg could understand why he acted the way he did?  

He sighed, deciding that the answer was no. Not even close. "Everything," he said. It wasn't a lie, at least. "But I know that doesn't excuse what I said. Just please, Greg...please forgive me." Before he could stop it, he felt a hot tear slide down his face.

It was then that the remainder of Greg's stone cold anger crumpled, replaced by pain. His hard gaze fell away and his previously tensed shoulders slumped, as if being mad at Mycroft had been physically exhausting. "Do you promise, Mycroft?" he asked. "Do you promise that you didn't mean any of what you said in that cupboard? Do you _swear_ that you actually want to be my friend, that you're not just playing me?"

"On my life."

The moment of hesitation on Greg's part felt like a century to Mycroft. Finally, Greg broke down and closed the distance between them with a hug. "You have no idea how much it's hurt not talking to you," he said.

"Believe me," said Mycroft, enjoying Greg's muscular arms wrapped around him and hugging him back just as tightly. "I do."

__________________________

Only a moment or two after Sherlock left, John's focus on his homework was interrupted once again.  This time by Molly, who entered without knocking and carried her book bag with her.

"Hey John," she sighed. "You doing homework?"

"Sort of," he responded, honestly. "Haven't gotten much done, though."

"Me neither," she said. "Mind if I join you?"

John gestured to Sherlock's desk chair, which was still pulled up beside his own from when they had been watching movies last night. And, John remembered with a smile, holding hands.

Molly took a seat and pulled her chemistry homework from her bag. "Thanks," she said. "Kind of hard to focus back at my place. My stupid roommate is setting up for some party she's having tonight."

John raised an eyebrow. "Are we even _allowed_ to have parties here?"

"That's what I said! I told her she was going to get caught and expelled. But apparently she knows the night security guard. Or at least," Molly added in a mocking tone, "She _'knows what he likes'._ I swear to god, she's such a manipulative bitch!"

"Speaking of manipulative," John piped up, forgetting his homework completely. "Are you ever going to tell me what she's blackmailing you with?"

Molly pressed her lips together and shook her head fiercely, her brown ponytail swinging side to side. "John, we've discussed this. It's bad enough that one person knows, I'm not giving this even the smallest chance of getting back to the police–"

"Come on Molly, do you really think I'd tell anyone? Don't you trust me?"

"I do trust you," said Molly, but her stern expression didn't even soften. "It's not about that. I just can't talk about it, okay? Now don't bring it up again, or....or I'll make you talk about your feelings for Sherlock!"

John's face flushed, and Molly smiled, knowing that she had him.

The two were able to work silently for about three minutes before the door burst open, causing both their heads to snap up. Sherlock stumbled in, looking for a moment like he had just been mugged. His coat was hanging off his shoulders and his normally crisp, button up shirt was rumpled. His hair was a complete wreck, like it had been yanked violently in several places, and his face had a wild, manic look to it.

Then, John noticed his swollen lips and the lipstick smudges surrounding them.

"Sherlock...."

But Molly took the words right out of his mouth. "What the _fuck_ happened to you?!"

Sherlock fell onto his bed, seeming– though it was completely unlike him– to be at a loss for words. "I...she just...I didn't....asdfghjk." He covered his face with his hands. "My god, it was awful."

 _"What happened?"_ John asked.

Sherlock handed him a piece of paper that he had been tightly crumpled in his fist.

As John read the elegant handwriting, he suddenly felt as though a block of ice had been dropped in his stomach. _Don't bring a friend..._ It was the obviously suggestive implications of that last line, complete with a winky face at the end, that really did it.

"Hey, that's my room number!" said Molly, who had read the note over John's shoulder. "Irene..." she looked at Sherlock again, taking in his overall state. "Oh, I should've known this was her doing!"

"You're telling me _your_ _roommate_ did this to him?" John asked in disbelief. " And wait...why should you have known?"

Molly bit her lip. "I kind of suspected she'd be after him soon, especially with how everyone's been talking about him. The thing about Irene is....besides being a manipulative bitch, she's sapiosexual. That is, she's extremely attracted to intelligent people."

John raised his eyebrows. "That's a thing?" he asked, skeptically.

Molly nodded. "But with her, it's like, _obsessive._ Trust me, I've known Irene for years. It's her one weakness. She'd do _anything_ for a genius if she thought she could get into their pants."

Sherlock snapped his head up suddenly. His grey eyes looked vacant and unfocused, and John knew that his mind was working a million miles an hour, making deductions that the other two couldn't even begin to understand. After a few seconds his eyes widened, as if the final piece of whatever puzzle he had been building in his mind had finally clicked into place. He smiled. "Oh, this is too good," he said.

"What?" said John and Molly simultaneously.

Of course, Sherlock ignored them. His previous shock from being forcibly made out with seemed to have vanished, though. Still grinning, Sherlock tossed his coat aside and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"Oh hell no, he is _not_ shutting me out again," Molly muttered. She banged on the door loudly. "What are you doing in there?!"

"I've got a party to get ready for, don't I?" Sherlock answered through the door.

Molly sputtered. "You're not honestly thinking of _going??!_ "

"Of course I am! I was invited, after all. It would be quite rude not to show up."

John was speechless. Molly, however, would not let up. "Sherlock, I don't know what your motivation is here, but please reconsider! You don't know Irene like I do! She's _insane!"_

Sherlock opened the door a crack, now bare-chested "I know," he said, still smiling. "By the way, she's also working for Moriarty, and intends to have you killed by Christmas. You really should find a new roommate, Molly." He shut the door again.

__________________________

"I'm telling you Jim, I don't trust her–"

"Well you're going to have to!" Jim yelled at Sebastian, not in the mood to put up with his skeptical comments about Irene. He was nervous enough for tonight as it was. "We don't exactly have a choice."

"Disagree," muttered Sebastian. "We could always-"

"For the last time," Jim sighed. "We are _not_ going to kill her. She's useful, she knows people, and backstabbing goes against everything I stand for. We're criminals, Seb, not barbarians."

The two boys, having planned and plotted themselves into exhaustion over the past few days, were currently relaxing in their room. Well, _relaxing_ may have been the wrong word. They were both fully dressed and lying on their individual beds, with the intention of getting some rest before eight o' clock, when phase 2 of their plan would officially be put into action. However, neither boy was able to quit fidgeting. There were so many things that could go wrong tonight....

"You remember everything you have to do this evening, right?" Jim asked for the millionth time.

"Yes."

"You know what your time frames are, and when you have to be back here?"

_"Yes."_

"If we need to go over anything at all, tell me now-"

"Jim, _I've got It._ " Seb reassured his friend, slightly annoyed. "I'm not a moron."

Jim smirked. "Are you sure, Moran?" he asked, referring to him by his last name.

The boys laughed; it was an old joke of theirs.

Jim exhaled loudly and checked his watch. 7:30. Had Irene confronted Sherlock yet? Was she able to convince him come to the party? What if Sherlock didn't show up? Then the whole plan would be ruined.

 _No,_ Jim thought, putting his mind at ease with a simple realization. Sherlock would definitely show up, there was no doubt about it. The Sherlock he knew would never walk away from a shot at danger. A chance to find answers, to cure his boredom....

"Do you know what _you_ have to do tonight?" Seb asked, interrupting Jim's thoughts.

Normally, Jim would have disregarded this question with a derisive scoff, but now he nodded. Giving his current agitated state, he supposed it was a reasonable question. "Yeah," he replied. "Definitely."

"Okay, because I was wondering," Seb remarked curiously, sitting up in his bed. "I know it's more part of your job than mine, but where exactly does the Lestrade kid come into play?"

Jim's face pulled itself into a shark's grin as he recalled his most recent discovery. Ah, Greg Lestrade. What an interesting addition he made to Jim's original, well-thought-out plot. A useful one, too, and surprisingly easy to incorporate. Jim hadn't initially planned to concern himself much with the older Holmes boy, except to eventually kill him in exchange for Irene's help. But now that he had found a hold on him...oh, there was so much he could do.

"Oh, don't you worry about him," Jim responded, mysteriously. "You'll find out soon enough. For now, you just focus on your responsibilities. I've got mine all under control."

_________________________

** 8:o5 pm **

"Didn't her note tell you _not_ to bring a friend?" John couldn't help bringing up, even though he was secretly thrilled that Sherlock had insisted he come along. They were on their way to Irene's room, Sherlock dressed in his finest shirt and slacks under his usual coat, while John had chosen to stick to his jeans and t shirt (not admitting that he didn't really own anything nicer). Molly had chosen to stay in their room and do homework, having no desire to tarnish her "unpopular nerd" reputation by attending a party.

"Of course," answered Sherlock, positively giddy with excitement. "Yet I'm sure Moriarty knew when he told her to write that line that I would bring you with me. Best to just stick with his plan so we can find out where it's headed, then we can improvise from there."

Sherlock still seemed to be under the impression that John was up to speed with his latest revelation, without him having to explain anything. But of course, John was still quite confused. Suddenly, Molly's manipulative roommate– who, John recalled unpleasantly, had been sucking Sherlock's face mere hours before– was a murderer in collaboration with Moriarty. How Sherlock had come to this conclusion John still had no idea, but he didn't bother asking.

"Here we are, 231 A!" Sherlock announced when they reached their destination. There was already annoying pop music blasting behind the door, in addition to the voices and laughter of what John assumed to be maybe thirty other kids. He couldn't help wondering if Irene had invited any of them the way she had invited Sherlock....

Sherlock pulled out his cell phone, checking the time. "A few more minutes," he said, leaning back against the wall outside the door.

John stared at him quizzically. "Sorry, what are we waiting for?"

"It's 8:07," said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow like the answer was obvious. "At least three more minutes before we can be considered fashionably late. That's what people usually are at their first parties, right?"

John opened his mouth to tell him _no, not exactly_ , but then closed it and shrugged. It wasn't as if he was anxious to go in, anyway. He joined Sherlock against the wall. "Three more minutes then."

As the boys waited patiently for 8:10, Sherlock pulled out his phone again. He turned on the front-facing camera and used it as a mirror, checking his face and running his fingers through his wild curls.

John was struck by irritation at this. "What the hell are you doing? You look ridiculous."

"Well, I have to look nice for Irene–"

"Why?" John demanded, flinching as he did. That word had come out more aggressively than he had meant it.

Sherlock lowered his phone, staring at John curiously. " _Because,_ " he said, slowly. "According to Molly and the way Irene, er, _invited_ me here, she seems to be attracted to me. If I use that to my advantage-"

"What, you mean _flirt_ with her?" John interrupted, trying his hardest to keep his voice level under control. Of course, he was failing.

"Well yes, that's the plan," said Sherlock, still staring at John intently. "Not severely, just until I get some decent information-"

"Don't you think that's a bit fucked up, though?" John almost yelled. "Messing with someone's feelings like that?" Shit, was he talking about Irene's feelings, or his own?

Sherlock didn't seem to know either, as he fell silent.

"...Shit," John said aloud, biting his lip and turning away from Sherlock. He didn't think he could stand seeing Sherlock's grey eyes bore into him, making deductions, drawing conclusions....

But Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and turned him back around to face him. "John, look at me."

John looked up, and saw that Sherlock's cloudy irises were full of kindness and understanding, and...possibly something else. "This isn't real," he whispered. "Anything that happens between Irene and myself tonight is _fake,_ do you understand?"

John did, but what he didn't understand was why Sherlock was reassuring him of this. And when had they gotten so close? Their faces were only inches apart. John could almost taste the tea on Sherlock's breath.

John's own breath caught in his throat as Sherlock brought his right hand to John's face, resting it gently on his cheek. His heart pounded relentlessly. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, leaning in.

Suddenly, Irene's door flew open and the boys jumped apart like the other was on fire. There stood Irene herself, in a tight black dress that left little to the imagination, and seeming completely unaware of what she had just interrupted. "I thought I heard voices," she remarked with a smile. "Come on in."

Shaking his head as if to snap himself out of a certain state, Sherlock followed Irene into the dim room full of bad music and drunk teenagers, and John followed Sherlock– knowing that from this point forward, he always would.

__________________________

As they entered the room, Sherlock had to mentally command his autonomic nervous system to calm down before he was physically able to make any deductions. Even though every fiber of his being was screaming _Holy shit we almost kissed John!!!,_ the rational part of him knew to push what had just happened aside. What mattered now was that they made it through the night. Then, maybe later, they'd be able to pick up where they left off....

Sherlock closed his eyes, shoving this new, irrational part of himself deep into his mind palace. When he opened them, cold and emotionless once again, he began to observe.

The entire place was packed with older students, many of whom were already drunk. Some were dancing, others were pairing up and snogging in dark corners. The room was dimly lit with red and violet lamps, and a song Sherlock didn't recognize blasted on the radio.

Irene led the boys to the back of the room and stopped suddenly. "You," she said, pointing at John. "Why don't you go over there and get us some drinks or something?" She pointed to a refreshments table set up by the front door, about as far away from where they were now as one could get.

"Um," said John, turning to Sherlock.

"You don't have to get us anything, John," said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes at Irene. "However, Irene clearly wishes to speak to me alone."

"....Okay," John said, nervously. "I'll just...go over there for a bit." He retreated to a corner close by, so he could still keep an eye on Sherlock and Irene, even if he couldn't hear what they were saying.

Irene pulled Sherlock down onto the leather sofa nearby. Beside it there was an end table with a small digital clock, along with extra alcohol and plastic cups. Irene immediately poured herself a drink. She offered Sherlock one as well, but of course he declined.

"Your friend over there seems very loyal," she remarked, gesturing to where John stood awkwardly. "I thought I told you not to bring anybody."

"Never mind that," said Sherlock, sternly. "Why did you invite me here?"

Irene giggled, ignoring his question and taking a long sip of her drink. She never broke eye contact with Sherlock as she drank, staring intently at him from underneath her heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

Sherlock waited silently.

"You know, Sherlock," she said, finally setting the cup down, her lipstick leaving a dark red stain on the rim. "When Jim Moriarty found me this summer and offered me a part of his plan, my intentions were....much different than they are now."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He had not expected her to be so upfront right away.

"Yes, let's not even pretend that we both don't know who I'm working for," Irene said. She spoke casually, as if they were discussing a school assignment instead of her affiliation with a vicious murderer. She pulled her feet up onto the sofa, leaning into Sherlock suggestively. It took all the boy's willpower not to tense up. "But like I said, I was different when I joined him. For one, I was desperately and pathetically in love with him," she laughed, seeming to cringe at the very memory of this, while Sherlock stared at her in disbelief. "What can I say? He's intelligent. But that was before-" she stopped, obviously realizing she was about to say too much. "Never mind. The point is, that was my main reason for joining him."

"And why are you telling me this?" asked Sherlock, freezing as Irene leaned closer to him, her breath grazing his neck.

"Because," she said, running her fingers through his curls and smiling when he shivered involuntarily. "I've switched sides, my love, and I need you to know it's because of you. I didn't care who I had to hurt until I found out this Sherlock Holmes boy was so..."

Sherlock swallowed, horrified at what he was about to do, but he knew it was necessary. Keeping his eyes away from the corner of the room where he knew John was watching, he caressed Irene's cheek with his hand in the same way he had done to John in the hallway. He kept his expression stoic, even though he wanted to vomit. "So....Moriarty wanted you to hurt me?"

She nodded, her eyes closed and breathing in deeply.

"Why?"

Irene leaned in close to him. "Honestly....at first, I wasn't entirely sure. I thought it would've made more sense to go after your brother, as _he's_ the one with the organization who took down Jim's father. But he had always been obsessed with you, and I didn't understand why....at first."

Sherlock tucked a strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, staring into her eyes as romantically as he could manage. "And now you know?"

Irene bit her lip. "I have a theory. I've thought a lot about it, and it seems the most plausible...."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, not daring to lean toward her any closer than her already was.

Turns out, he didn't need to. Without warning, Irene climbed on top of Sherlock and straddled him, causing her tiny dress to ride up to hip level and exposing her black thong. He was incredibly glad that the room was dim enough that she couldn't see his intense blush. She kissed him with even greater force than she had earlier.

Sherlock had no choice: he kissed her back. Only this time, he kept his eyes open and looked directly towards where John was standing. The blond boy looked devastated, yet seemed physically unable to pry his eyes away from the scene. Sherlock tried desperately to communicate with his eyes that this didn't mean anything, that he wished he was doing this with John instead.

John simply nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes, pushing his gaze to the ground.

When Irene finally pulled away, Sherlock wasted no time. "What is it?" he repeated. "Why does Moriarty want to kill me?"

Irene smiled as if what she was about to say amused her. Then, she leaned in close. "Because," she whispered. "You make him _feel._ "

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, confused. "Um... _what?"_

But instead of elaborating, Irene laughed and poured herself another drink. "And that is all I will say on _that_ subject. You'll have to figure out the rest yourself."

Sherlock shook his head, making a note to revisit Irene's answer another time. "Okay then, on to something else. What has Moriarty been planning these past few months? I want to know everything." Then, remembering that he had to keep Irene's interest if he wanted answers, Sherlock slipped his arm over her shoulders. "Can you tell me?"

Irene batted her eyelashes. "That depends. How long can you stay?"

__________________________

** 8:45 pm **

Sebastian checked his watch and was extremely pleased to find that he was ahead of schedule. He had managed to collect the materials he needed with no problem, so he had a good fifteen minutes to spare before he needed to be at room 233B. Jim would be so proud of him!

Since he had so much extra time, Seb went ahead and stopped at their room to change his clothes. The next part of his job would be quite messy, after all. He grimaced at the thought. Blood....he hated it. Not so much the sight - he had seen enough blood in his life to be used to it by now - but he hated cleaning it. It was impossible to get out of clothes, it took ages to scrub out of carpet, and the stench of dirty iron mixed with bleach gave him a killer headache. But he'd never tell Jim this. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to think he couldn't handle helping him.

His room was empty, Jim having left long ago to take care of his own part of the plan. As Seb traded his khakis and checkered button-up for a pair of old ripped jeans and a t-shirt, he allowed his mind a few minutes to wander into Forbidden Territory, something he had not permitted for a long time: Jim. His partner in crime for about five years, his best friend for much longer. And the boy he loved.

They had grown up side by side, he and Jim. Hard not to when their fathers were in the same business. Or had been anyway, before Mycroft Holmes and his damned secret service had shut it down and hauled both men off to jail. Seb remembered the raids of their homes vividly, because Jim was already institutionalized at the time and Seb had to deal with losing his dad alone.

 _Institutionalized...._ Seb flinched. He had never asked Jim why he had done what he did to his sister. And it wasn't like Jim ever volunteered the information. But Seb couldn't help being horrified by himself, because if anything _that_ should've made him stop loving his sociopathic friend. For god's sake, who the hell kills a _baby?!_

He wasn't sure what it said about him that his opinion of his friend never changed. That he visited Jim every week in that goddamn nut house, and on the day of his release their friendship continued like nothing had happened, except they began spending all their time plotting revenge against the Holmes family....

He never stopped loving him. Not once.

The worst part was that Seb was sure Jim knew, on some level, about his feelings. If only from the brief looks they shared sometimes when they were alone, always before Jim would frown and look away. The message was clear: if Jim did know about Seb's feelings, he would much prefer they go unmentioned.

Though this broke his heart, Seb tried his best not to take it personally. It helped that Jim never showed interest in anyone else either. He just wished that not being loved back didn't hurt so much.

Shaking aside the memories and yanking his mind out of Forbidden Territory, Seb checked his watch again. 8:55. It was time to head off to his next destination. _Oh how time flies when you're sitting around feeling sorry for yourself,_ Seb thought, chuckling sadly.

He grabbed the trash bag with his supplies in it. He double checked, then _triple_ checked to make sure he had everything he needed _._

Syringes? Check.

Rope? Check.

Silencer on gun? Check.

Cleaning supplies? Check.

He wasn't exactly nervous (not like this was his first murder or anything) but he didn't want to fuck this up. Not when Jim was depending on him.

Finally sure he had everything necessary to frame a murder, Seb slipped on his black hoodie and gloves. He left his room not bothering to turn off the light behind him. If all went as planned, he would be back in an hour.

__________________________

** 9:00 pm **

Having long ago finished her homework, Molly was lying sideways on one of the boys' beds– she didn't know whose– playing Candy Crush on her phone. She didn't play games often, but she needed something mind-numbing to keep her thoughts away from Sherlock and John. They had only been gone for an hour, yet Molly couldn't help but worry about them. If what Sherlock had said was true– if Irene was really working for Moriarty– could her friends be in danger tonight? Was she a horrible person for not going with them to the party?

And it wasn't as if she wouldn't have worried about them if Sherlock happened to be wrong (which, Molly had to admit, was unlikely). Irene Adler didn't have to work for anyone to be dangerous; she could accomplish that all on her own. She had managed to ruin Molly's life on her own, anyway....

Molly's thoughts were interrupted when a loud THUMP outside the door disturbed the silence she had been enjoying. Frightened, Molly snapped her head up and froze. She took a moment to listen, but heard nothing else. Figuring it was just someone drunk-stumbling home from the party, Molly rolled her eyes and returned to her game.

But then an even more frightening sound recaptured her attention: the sound of a jiggling doorknob. Someone was trying to get in.

Holding her breath, Molly stood up and slowly backed to the furthest corner of the room. She was grateful that she had locked the door– something she had made it a habit to do since the day she learned about Moriarty– but she had a feeling whoever this was had the means to open a locked door.

Sure enough, the next sound she heard was the _pick pick pick-ing_ of something in the lock. Pins? Or was it a key?

Hands shaking in fear, Molly switched her phone to the dialing screen and put her thumb over the 9, but a second to late. The door burst open, and Molly didn't have time to call the police or anyone else.

She didn't even have time to scream.

__________________________

** 9:30 pm **

Mycroft was typing up an email to his boss, who had emailed him days previously demanding to know why it had been a month and Moriarty wasn't dead yet. Or rather, he was staring at a blinking cursor, wondering what the hell to say.

 _My apologies sir, but the person you've assigned me to kill happens to be after my little brother, and I'm not going to end his life if he's the only one who can stop whatever plan he's set into motion...._ No, there was no way that would fly with his boss. Besides, that was only part of the truth.

 _I'm truly sorry, but I haven't been incredibly focused lately. I've fallen in love, you see. I didn't plan to, but I can't seem to fall back out of it...._ Just another part of the whole truth, and another statement that would get him fired faster than he could blink.

 _I've never murdered anyone before...._ And that was the rest of the truth. Though embarrassed to admit it, seventeen-year-old Mycroft Holmes had never personally killed anyone before, and wasn't entirely sure if he could.

He was still pondering what he would say to his boss when Greg, who had hardly left his side since the two made up a couple hours ago, interrupted his thoughts. "Working on a paper there, or...?"

"No. Just business."

"What kind of business?"

Mycroft smirked, unable to help himself when he said "I'm afraid that's classified information."

Greg laughed. God, Mycroft had missed his laugh. "I guess you don't have to tell me if you don't....hey, what's that?"

Mycroft looked up and followed Greg's gaze to the space under their door, where apparently someone had just slipped a piece of paper into their room.

"Hello?" said Greg loudly, and there was a scuttling of footsteps as whoever had just been there retreated not-so-silently.

Immediately, Greg leapt up from his seat. "Hey!" he shouted, yanking the door open to scan the hallway.

Meanwhile, Mycroft cautiously proceeded to where the paper lay facedown. He knelt down slowly to pick it up, turning it over to read what he almost already knew it said.

"Well," said Greg, closing the door again. "Either the person came from one of the surrounding rooms or there's some serious paranormal activity going on here, because they're gone. Is that a note? What does it say?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He just read the two sentences over and over again, growing incredibly numb as he did so.

**If you ever want to see your brother again, be on the roof in an hour. Come alone.**

The message was typed in standard 12 point, Times New Roman font and printed on the most generic paper, yet Mycroft had no doubt about who sent it.

"Mycroft?" Greg asked, his tone full of concern at the sight of his friend's face.

Wordlessly, Mycroft showed him the note.

"Holy shit," said Greg.

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

" _'He will be the first to die..._ '" Greg recalled Moriarty's words from last week. "You're not seriously thinking of going, are you? I'm not half as smart as you, and even I know this has to be a trap!"

"Oh, I'm sure this is a trap," Mycroft said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But that doesn't mean Sherlock isn't in trouble." Mycroft shut down his laptop. He grabbed his cell phone, his gun, and his umbrella. "I'll be back later," he said, though not entirely convinced that he would be.

"Wait, it says here you have an hour!"

"Why postpone it?" Mycroft replied bitterly. He headed for the door

But Greg blocked his way. "Hold up, you are _not_ going alone!"

"I have to-"

"No you don't!" Greg argued. "And I won't let you. Come on mate, they don't have to know I'm with you. I could hide somewhere nearby, and only jump out if Moriarty tries anything."

Mycroft sighed. "That won't work, Greg. And there's no way I'm letting you put yourself in danger for me. This is my problem, not yours." He pushed Greg aside gently and put his hand on the doorknob.

"Please!" Greg cried, putting a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, forcing him to turn. "Please let me put myself in danger for you." His eyes were teary and pleading.

It was only then that it hit Mycroft, the realization that had clearly already come to Greg. _This might be it. I might die tonight, and I'll never see him again._ It wasn't fair. He had just gotten Greg back, and now he was going to die?

"Please..." said Greg again.

Mycroft swallowed back a sob. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, a trick for stopping tears that he had learned when he was very young. Then, he took Greg's face in both his hands and kissed him hard. He felt Greg gasp into his mouth before kissing him back earnestly.

The joy behind this first kiss very nearly outweighed the sadness that it might be their last; the months of tension and confusion that was finally relieved! Mycroft would've been perfectly content to stay this way forever, but he only allowed himself seven seconds. Seven seconds to memorize this pivotal moment in his short life– the surprising warmth of the kiss, the tingling sensation that reached all of his nerve endings, the way Greg's tongue traced his bottom lip, the boy's hands in his hair, and how he felt so incredibly _right_ enveloped tightly in Greg's arms....

Seven seconds. Then he broke it off, and for a few extra seconds the boys just stood there, holding each other. Greg was laughing and crying, but his eyes had not lost their questioning gaze as he waited for Mycroft to answer him. _Please,_ they still begged silently.

"Not a chance," said Mycroft. He picked up his umbrella from where he had dropped it on the ground and opened the door to leave. "Don't you dare follow me Greg Lestrade."

Greg didn't.

__________________________

The first thing Mycroft did was check his brother's room. _Please be there, please be there,_ he urged Sherlock in his mind. If Sherlock was there, then everything would be okay. Nobody had to die. _Please be there..._

When he reached 221B to find the door ajar, Mycroft's sliver of hope that Moriarty had been bluffing vanished. "Fuck," he muttered, his heart racing as he opened the door to observe the scene inside.

Not only was the room empty, but there were obvious signs of a struggle. A desk was tipped over, papers scattered everywhere, and there was a huge splatter of blood on the back wall. It was almost as if....

_No._

Shaking, Mycroft got down to his hands and knees, searching desperately for the proof that would finish the story, and praying to every god he knew of that he wouldn't find it.

But there it was, on the ground beside the bureau: a bloodied 9mm bullet that had clearly found its exit wound.

Mycroft cried out in anguish, picking up a chair and throwing it against the wall, where it snapped. The weight of it formed a dent in the paint.

Wait a second...

 _Idiot!_ Mycroft almost felt the smack from his briefly-forgotten brilliant side. _Are you blind? Make deductions._

Mycroft paused, allowing himself to calm down before _truly_ observing the scene. Beneath the splatter of blood was an unmarred wall; and in fact, now that he looked at it, the splatter itself seemed a bit to artistic to be real. Then he examined the bullet and noticed that it was perfect. Not even the slightest sign of impact.

 _It was planted here,_ he realized. _Nobody was shot in this room._

Mycroft laughed in relief. His brother was still alive, he was almost positive. And if he had to go to the roof to find out for sure, then so be it.

__________________________

** 9:40 pm **

They had been at this stupid party for nearly an hour and a half, and John was more than ready to go home. Most of the others who had been at the party had either stumbled home themselves by now, or were passed out drunk on the floor. John had nudged Sherlock several times throughout the night, hoping his friend would give up on whatever he was trying to do here and let them leave, but every time Sherlock had simply waved him off, hardly so much as looking at him.

Yes, Sherlock had convinced Irene to allow him to join their conversation, but having to be so near their constant flirting only made John wish he was back in his corner. The stupid whore wasn't even saying anything interesting, she was just going on about Moriarty's childhood.

Sherlock, however, seemed to be fascinated with everything Irene was telling them. "So his mother died when he was only five?"

"Yes," said Irene, her words sounding slurred from the number of drinks she had poured herself over the past hour. "If you ask me, I think his father did it. Moriarty men have always killed out of rage. Just look at what Jim did to his sister!" She took another long drink from her plastic cup then, her hand shaking so hard she almost sloshed the drink down her front.

Sherlock looked as if he was about to ask another question before he caught sight of his watch. "Well would you look at the time? John and I have got to be going." He stood up, putting his coat back on.

John, who had been sitting mostly in silence for the past hour, snapped his head up. "We do?" he asked. What made Sherlock want to leave _now?_

"Of course," said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off Irene. "It's almost 9:45." He seemed to be expecting some sort of reaction out of her.

And sure enough, there was a flash of panic in the girl's eyes that even John couldn't miss. Suddenly, she didn't look quite so tipsy. "Hold on!" she said, blushing when she heard how desperate she sounded. She glanced at the clock on her end table (which, John realized, she seemed to be doing a lot tonight). "I mean....you simply _must_ stay, my love. Just a few more minutes-"

"You know what?" said Sherlock. "I think I _will_ have that drink you offered me earlier." He snatched the clear bottle off the end table before Irene could stop him and took a long drink from it. He lowered it from his lips looking extremely satisfied. "Water."

"I can explain-"

"Do you think I'm a fool, Irene?" Sherlock asked. "You turned to pour yourself a drink several times, yet you haven't been drunk this entire night. You've been turning to look at the clock. Waiting for a deadline."

Irene bit her lip. "I didn't think you would notice that."

"Do you not know who you're talking to?"

Irene smirked. "Touché."

The two glared at each other intensely. John was as out of the loop as ever, but could guess enough to know that it wouldn't be wise for the two of them to stick around any longer. "Sherlock, let's just go," he urged.

"You go," Sherlock whispered. "I have to find out what this is all about."

John, of course, didn't move. He checked the clock. 9:43.

"So how much of what you told me tonight were lies?" Sherlock asked Irene.

The girl laughed, reaching between the cushions of the sofa and retracting a small handbag. "Nothing, of course."

"Except for the part where you said you had 'switched sides'," Sherlock corrected her.

Irene shrugged. "I suppose you can call that a lie, if you wish. But I'm certainly not on Jim's side."

"Certainly not," Sherlock agreed. "You have your own agenda."

"Yes....funny enough, you were actually never a part of it," she added, much to John's surprise. "This is just a trade off. Just business." She pulled two syringes filled with a clear liquid out of her handbag.

The clock read 9:44.

"Time to go yet Sherlock?" John asked desperately.

"I told you John, _you_ go home. I'll be fine."

"She's going to kill you!"

"Of course I'm not," said Irene, exasperated. "This is just a sedative."

"Oh there's no need for that," said Sherlock casually. "Wherever you want to take me, I'll go willingly." John could feel Sherlock's hand on his back, pushing him towards the door, silently begging him to leave. But John stood his ground, staring at the bold red 9:44.

Irene pouted, thinking it over for a few seconds before shaking her head. "Oh, but you see Sherlock," she said (John couldn't take his eyes off the clock if he wanted to). "That would take all the fun out of my job."

_Blink._

9:45.

With a sound halfway between a _click_ and a _CRACK,_ the lights shut off.

A familiar baritone cried out, "John, RUN!", but not before John felt a stabbing pain in his neck and his world turned dark.

__________________________

** 9:50 pm **

Still covered in blood and reeking of murder, Sebastian raced back to room 215B to complete his last assignment of the night. He was no longer ahead of schedule; in fact, he had to report back to Jim in ten minutes.

In his defense, he had not expected his last job to take as long as it did. He'd had no idea someone could struggle that much.

Ah well, live and learn.

Skidding to a stop when he reached his destination, Seb took a moment to catch his breath. Only a moment, though. Then, he checked to make sure he still had his last syringe.

Finally, promising himself he would accomplish this sedation in five minutes or less, he opened the door.

__________________________

** 10:00 pm **

Jim strolled into his dorm feeling positively elated. He tossed the night security guard's key chain into the air with joy and caught it easily in his other hand. Never mind Irene's annoying sense of entitlement; in this moment, he was grateful that he had her. It was thanks to her manipulation capabilities that this key chain was in his possession, giving him the power to open any door in the building. Most recently, the door to the power room on the first floor.

Irene and Seb were already waiting for him, both looking sufficiently worn out. This pleased Jim as well, because he knew this meant that everything had gone smoothly tonight.

Still, he had to check.

"Irene?" he asked first. Her job, in his opinion, had been the easiest.

"Done." she sighed. "Sherlock and his little friend are passed out in my room. I took the liberty of tying them up for you, but I don't think I've got the strength to haul them to the roof myself."

"You've done well," Jim assured her. Then, to add to the compliment, he went ahead and tossed her a wad of notes from his pocket.

She wasted no time counting her reward. "Only half?"

"You'll get your other half when Sherlock's dead-"

"But that will take weeks!" Irene complained. "Why can't we just kill him tonight?"

" _Because,"_ Jim groaned, tired of explaining it. "We have to burn him first. It's so simple; we destroy his image, ruin his name, make him commit suicide, and they'll never trace it back to us. Honestly, do I have to go over this _every time?"_

Irene grumbled an insulting response, but let it go.

Disregarding her, Jim turned to his best friend, who probably had the most difficult tasks tonight. "Seb?"

"Done!" he exclaimed proudly, motioning to his torn and bloodied clothes. "I'll admit, I didn't quite expect the struggle I received, but it was very exciting. And there is now a dead body lying on the grounds– appearing to have fallen from a window, of course– for all the school to see in the morning."

"Excellent," said Jim. "And the evidence was planted?"

"Yes," Seb responded proudly. "Anyone with half a brain cell would accuse Sherlock at the sight of the scene I left."

"What about your other jobs?" Jim demanded. He felt a bit guilty about the amount of work Seb had to do tonight. He might've done the first real murder himself, but setting up that fake scene for Mycroft Holmes had taken up a lot of Jim's time.

"I slipped Mycroft the note early on, as soon as I knew you were done with the Hooper girl," Seb recounted. "He should be on the roof by now. And as for Lestrade, he's sedated in his room. I'm glad I caught him when I did, actually, because he looked to be on his way out. Probably to follow Mycroft."

Jim had never felt more satisfied. He knew it had been clever to include Lestrade in the plan last minute. If he had gotten in the way, everything would have fallen apart.

"Magnificent job, Seb! You've done brilliantly." Jim exclaimed before glancing away, pretending not to notice the way his friend beamed when he expressed his gratitude.

He checked his gun to make sure it was fully loaded. Time for the final part of Phase 2 of this brilliant plan of his.

"Alright everyone," he announced as if he was addressing a crowd instead of his two lowly companions. "I know you're exhausted, but frankly I don't care. It's nearly time for the best part of the night."

He pointed to Seb. "Help Irene with Sherlock and that John Watson kid. I want them in the storage room on the top floor until further notice. Molly's already there and should still be out cold. Leave her there. I'll take care of Lestrade. Any questions?"

Jim paused, allowing three seconds for questions if anyone decided to be an idiot. Luckily, no one did. "Excellent." he said, grinning wider than ever. He practically bouncing in anticipation, excited at the very thought of all the misery Sherlock would feel once his brother was dead. He couldn't wait!

Jim opened the door with a flourish and exited with a parting line. "I'll see you on the roof."

 


	11. The Roof

** 10:25 pm **

Mycroft had been on the roof for nearly an hour. The rain he had anticipated earlier that evening was pouring down by now, forming a thick white sheet that reduced his visibility by half. The boy was drenched and freezing, but still he held his closed umbrella tightly in front of him where he stood.

 _He's keeping me waiting on purpose,_ Mycroft concluded, as he finished counting the leaves on the nearest tree for the dozenth time. Each time he started again the number of leaves decreased, as the storm's fierce winds shook them to the muddy ground. This kept the activity just interesting enough to keep his mind from obsessing over Moriarty's whereabouts, panicking about whether Sherlock was alright or not, or recalling the memory of Greg's lips firm and warm against his own...

Swearing, Mycroft began counting the leaves again, this time in Russian. Just passing the time.

His legs shook from standing, but he didn't sit for the same reason he didn't open his umbrella to shield himself from the storm: He was going to die tonight anyway, and he deserved every ounce of pain and misery he experienced up until that point.

Suddenly, there was a creak and Mycroft snapped to attention. The door to the roof opened slowly, and from the darkened stairwell emerged the slim form of Jim Moriarty.

"Well hello," said Moriarty, his tone disturbingly cheerful and his shark grin as wide as ever. "Thought I might find you up here." His attitude was smug. He had already won this round, and he knew it. Everything that happened after this was just tedious transition to the next level.

Mycroft didn't respond, his teeth clenched as they had been for the past hour while he tensed up against the cold. But he didn't realize how tense his entire body had been until he tried to move towards his foe, and his locked leg muscles prevented him, sending him tumbling to his hands and knees at Moriarty's feet instead.

Moriarty let out a loud, manic cackle. "Oh, how appropriate." he jeered. "The great and clever Mycroft Holmes, _literally_ brought to his knees."

Shaking from both pain and rage, Mycroft stood up to face his adversary.

"So how are you tonight Mycroft?" Jim asked casually. "Feeling a bit stressed out, I assume. Maybe a tiny bit angry as well? Did you like the little murder scene I set up for you in your brother's room?"

"Very amusing, yes." Mycroft growled.

"Oh, I thought it would be!" Moriarty responded happily. "Of course, I knew it would only fool you for a few seconds, but it was worth the effort all the same. I just wish I could've seen the look on your stupid face!" He giggled, gleeful at the thought.

Mycroft took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. The palms of his hands were scraped and bleeding, he was freezing and soaked to the bone, and he knew that his chances of surviving the night were slim. But he _refused_ to go down without a fight. He slipped his hand inside his soaked-through suit jacket, closing his fingers around his gun.

"Oh, Mycroft," said Moriarty, his jovial tone dropping and sounding suddenly like he was speaking to a very naughty child. "You do know what will happen if you so much as point that gun of yours at me, don't you? You know how we'll punish you."

Mycroft did not even hesitate. A sudden wave of defiance rose up inside him as he pulled out his weapon and pointed it directly at his enemy's face. No. This wasn't the end. It _couldn't_ be. Mycroft Holmes did not lose.

"You're not going to kill him," said Mycroft, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. He was terrified. "Not only would you lose leverage over me, but you still need Sherlock. This isn't the end of your little plan, I _know_ it isn't." Of course, Mycroft had always known. Moriarty wanted Mycroft out of the way specifically so he could continue whatever plan he had laid out, so using Sherlock's life as manipulation didn't make any sense.

But Moriarty just cackled again, not even flinching at the gun pointed at his face. "Of course I can't kill Sherlock _yet,_ you bloody idiot. Tonight was never about him. No, my friend, tonight was all about _you._ " Then, without breaking eye contact with Mycroft, Moriarty yelled in the direction of the still-open stairwell to the roof. "Sebastiaaaan," he sang. "Bring him in."

Another form emerged from the darkness, this one a bit taller than Moriarty himself, and dragging a limp person behind him.

Mycroft knew who the limp person was seconds before Moriarty's accomplice came out into the open and dropped him onto the wet concrete. Of course he knew. Yet he couldn't contain the sob that escaped him when he saw Greg's body lying at the feet of the murderers. The boy was absolutely motionless and his eyes were closed. He could've been dead, except that Mycroft knew he wasn't. His fate had yet to be determined.

Sure enough, Moriarty pulled out his own gun and positioned it at the sleeping boy's temple, his finger ready to pull the trigger. "That's right," he said, obviously satisfied by Mycroft's reaction of horror. "He's nice and sedated. He won't feel a thing, and he'll never know that he died because _you_ were too cowardly to die yourself."

Mycroft's whole body was shaking, but it was no longer from fear, or from the cold. He might have been sobbing, but he couldn't distinguish his own tears from the rain that poured down his face.

"Now, are you still going to try being clever?" asked Moriarty.

Mycroft didn't respond, but only because he couldn't make his voice work. his brilliant mind raced through every possible move he could make from here- _any_ way that he could get out of this with no lives lost- but once considered, each idea dissipated like his clouds of warm breath exhaled into the cold. Moriarty had the upper hand, and could end Greg's life if Mycroft even stepped in the wrong direction.

"I didn't think so," Moriarty taunted.

And just like that, it was all so real to Mycroft. It was over. He had lost.

"Drop your gun." said Moriarty.

With the resigned demeanor of the battle soldier whose job it was to wave the white flag, Mycroft lowered his weapon to his side before finally surrendering it to gravity.

__________________________

Sherlock stirred first.

He knew that he was the quickest to overcome Irene's strong sedative, and he immediately knew why. Hypnotic drugs were the first he ever experimented with, back when he was eleven and just wanted to cure his insomnia. However, pills never worked for him, so he ended up developing a dependence on an injectable version he found with Mycroft's secret-service stuff. He remembered how Mycroft flipped shit when he found out, and forced him to quit cold turkey.

But apparently, Sherlock still maintained the tolerance he had built up to the drug.

He did not know where he was or who was watching him, so he didn't dare open his eyes, but began to make deductions with his other four senses the second consciousness allowed him.

The surface on which he lay was hard without the slightest give. _Concrete floor._ He was positioned at an awkward angle, with his arms twisted behind his back and his hands tied together, but he knew better than to try working at the knots. Instead, he kept his body motionless and his breathing even, listening closely for other breathing around him.

Sure enough, he detected the presence of three other people. The one to his right he knew for sure to be John; he'd recognize that gentle breathing anywhere, a sound that he had lain awake and listened to throughout countless sleepless nights. In his mind, Sherlock instantly relaxed. Just knowing that John was alive and near him allowed his focus to sharpen, and he was able to pinpoint the sources of the other two presences in just a few seconds.

They were both female. The only other sleeping breaths came from his left, and he could only deduce that they were from Molly. Though how and why she had gotten _herself_ captured he had no earthly idea.

The final set of breaths came from above him, a girl who was obviously awake and standing. Short, feminine breaths that were full of impatience and anxiety. _Irene._ Of course Moriarty would leave _her_ to watch over them as he handled the more important matters.

Realizing that Irene stood several feet in front of him, Sherlock began to untie the ropes around his wrists without opening his eyes. As he picked and pulled at the thick knots, he made more deductions.

At the same time that he realized he could hear the storm outside a bit clearer than he should be able to, Sherlock felt a breeze. He was near an open window....no, more likely a door. The breeze was coming from above: it was a door above a stairway. Yes, Sherlock's present location was coming together piece by piece, and he hadn't opened his eyes once.

The ropes that had held Sherlock's wrists together mere moments ago fell away, but still he didn't move. He and his friends were obviously being held on the fourth floor of the building, near the exit to the roof. Only Irene was there to supervise them, which meant that Moriarty and his other cohort were otherwise engaged, most likely on the roof....doing what?

Finally, when Sherlock just couldn't take the stillness anymore, he pried his eyelids open a fraction.

Luckily, Irene was facing the direction of the open doorway and did not notice. Taking advantage of this, Sherlock opened his eyes all the way and observed her face. She appeared both nervous and irritated, and had a distinct countenance of longing. She obviously wished to join the excitement up on the roof, and resented the fact that she was stuck down here.

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock used his recently freed hands to push himself into an upright position. Irene didn't notice.

Excited with his progress, he quietly moved into a crouch and prepared to tackle her. However, his good fortune did not last. Irene must have noticed the abrupt movement in her peripheral vision, as she suddenly gasped and whirled around.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, ready to sprint, but Irene was too fast. She had her gun out and aimed at him with the speed of someone who had done the motion several times before. "Stop!" she shouted.

Sherlock did, raising his hands into the air. "You don't want to shoot me," he said, because it felt like a sentence that someone who wasn't scared shitless would say.

"You....you shouldn't be awake," said Irene, sounding, Sherlock noticed, somewhat panicky.

Sherlock smirked. This was obviously the first time tonight that something had not gone according to plan. "Drug tolerance is a funny thing," he said. "Annoying at times, yet somewhat useful at others."

Irene made a confused face, and Sherlock took advantage of her momentary distraction by grabbing her gun-yielding arm and twisting it violently, kicking her legs out from under her at the same time. She shrieked and keeled over, quickly losing her grip on the weapon, and just like that Sherlock had overpowered her.

He pointed the gun at her face. "How long until they wake up?" he demanded, motioning to his friends.

"The amount I injected was _supposed_ to be enough to keep you all out for a good few hours," she answered immediately, sounding quite calm for someone who had her own weapon pointing back at her. "However, if you ask me, your friends here are the least of your worries."

Sherlock felt an icy dread shoot through his bloodstream, but he tried not to let it show. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Put the gun down and I'll tell you."

Instead, Sherlock cocked it put the barrel right up against her head. "How about you tell me or I'll blow your fucking brains out?"

But instead of looking intimidated, Irene smirked. "Don't be a fool, Sherlock," she said. "You've never killed anyone before-"

"Well then you'll have the honor of being my first, won't you?" Sherlock interrupted. "Don't think you can fuck with me anymore Irene, it's been a long night. Now where the hell is my brother?"

Irene smiled approvingly. "Mmm, clever boy."

"Process of elimination," he corrected.

"He's on the roof," she told him. "They all are. But don't think you can make it up there in time to save his life."

"Watch me!" yelled Sherlock, turning and sprinting for the staircase. But the second Irene was no longer under the gun she lunged for him, taking them both to the ground. They became locked in an intense struggle at the base of the staircase, Irene doing everything in her power to keep him from ascending to the roof.

"No!" she grunted, grappling to regain possession of the gun. "I've waited too long for this moment! I don't care what happens to you, but Mycroft Holmes must die!"

Sherlock attempted to shove her away, but she kept clawing at his arm. She needed the gun. Whoever had the weapon had control in this situation. He used his height as an advantage, holding it way up out of her reach, but she wouldn't let up, going as far as to straddle his waist to reach it.

Then, because the girl wouldn't get the hell off of him, and because Sherlock did not know what else to do, he pointed the gun towards the open doorway at the top of the stairs and fired.

__________________________

** A few moments earlier **

The second Mycroft dropped his gun was the second Moriarty seemed to realize he had the boy completely under his control. Mycroft's heart sank even further as he realized that he wouldn't get to die peacefully. Moriarty was going to have his fun first.

"Step forward," Moriarty ordered him. His eyes were positively gleaming with satisfaction.

Mycroft took exactly one step forward.

"Keep walking towards me until I say stop," said Moriarty, making a point to press the barrel of his gun harder to Greg's skull.

Mycroft followed his order. He was about a foot from the psychotic boy before he was ordered to stop.

"That's good," he said, then laughed. "Christ, you must really wish you could strangle me right now, don't you?"

That was an understatement. In fact, it took all of Mycroft's years of self-discipline not to dig his knuckles into the maniac's nearest pressure point, killing him instantly. The fact that he _could_ do so with incredible ease, yet was unable to for fear of the consequences drove him absolutely mad. Which, no doubt, had been Moriarty's exact intent.

"Go on," he dared Mycroft, as if reading his mind. "Do it. _Kill me."_

Mycroft clenched and unclenched his fists by his sides, not moving otherwise.

"OH COME ON!" Moriarty shouted, making even his partner Sebastian jump slightly. "You know you can do it, and you know that if you don't you're going to die. You _do_ know that, right?....Then, DO IT! What's stopping you?"

Whether the last question was rhetorical or not didn't matter, as Mycroft answered it when his gaze immediately strayed to Greg's face and remained there. The sight of the boy he loved in the arms of the enemy, completely asleep and ignorant of the fact that his life was in Mycroft's hands, was the only thing that kept Mycroft from giving in to Moriarty's dare.

 _"Really?"_ the villainous boy jeered, his tone one of utmost disgust. Then he laughed out loud. "Mycroft Holmes. You're telling me that you would honestly be willing to _die_ for another human–" he yanked Greg's hair, pulling his head up higher. "–And for _this_ moronic piece of shit, no less? Damn," he shook his head, seeming sincerely disappointed. "I was just testing you when I had him captured. I though you'd at least put up a good fight."

Then, with a resigned shrug, Moriarty passed Greg and his gun over to Sebastian so that he could focus entirely on Mycroft. He led the boy toward the edge of the roof, leaving Sebastian to stand with Greg directly in front of the open doorway.

"Oh well," Moriarty sighed. "If you've truly gone this soft, at least I know that a brilliant mind won't be leaving this world tonight. Just a sad, boring, _ordinary_ one. Now come on," he gestured to the ledge. "Let's get this over with."

"You won't kill him," Mycroft confirmed in a monotone, glancing back at Greg once more. "After I'm....you won't, you _can't_ kill him."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Well I won't have any _reason_ to, will I? He'll just be another annoying body to deal with."

"Would you hurry up and commit suicide already?" Sebastian yelled at Mycroft from across the roof. "I'm freezing my bullocks off out here."

Moriarty nudged him forward. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft stepped onto the ledge. He never realized how high up four stories was until he had to peer down that far from the ledge of a roof, preparing to jump. The height was strangely exhilarating.

He looked all the way down to the point that he knew was soon to be his final destination. If he squinted through the darkness and the haze of the rain, he thought he could see a dark shape on the ground that disturbingly resembled a dead body. Another part of Moriarty's plan?

He didn't have time to wonder or care.

As Mycroft allowed himself one last lungful of chilling air, he closed his eyes. He remembered who he was dying for, and the very first and last kiss they had shared.

He attempted to send a telepathic message to Sherlock, begging his brother to be clever enough to keep himself alive.

He said goodbye to his own gift of advanced metacognition that he had always taken for granted over the years. And he prepared to step off the roof.

But the unexpected sound of a gunshot froze him in place.

"NO!" someone shouted. Then Mycroft realized that actually two people had shouted: Moriarty and himself, but they were both drowned out by yet another, longer scream.

Mycroft turned to witness a shocking scene. Greg was now on the ground completely unattended, as Sebastian was curled up in a pool of blood, resulting from what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the leg. Moriarty was already at his side, his face full of panic, which was the first expression Mycroft had seen him wear that wasn't smug superiority.

"What the fuck happened?!" Moriarty kept demanding to know amidst his friend's cries of agony.

The bullet could have only come, Mycroft deduced, from the open doorway directly behind Sebastian. The doorway that led to the stairwell. Which meant-

Suddenly, Sherlock came barreling out of the doorway, gun in hand, with Irene Adler following close behind him. Irene halted in shock at the sight of Sebastian's crippled form. Sherlock, however, leaped over him without a thought, but halted at the sight of where Mycroft was standing.

There were several seconds of silence across the roof. Jim and Irene huddled around their fallen comrade, who was crying as he slowly bled out, completely at a loss for what to do. None of their backup plans accounted for anything like this, and it wasn't as if they could just take him to the school doctor's office without questions being asked.

Meanwhile, the Holmes boys stared each other down. Mycroft still stood on the ledge, and Sherlock stared up at him in absolute horror. But the stillness didn't last for long. Sherlock rushed up to where his brother stood and yanked him down to leveled ground, as if afraid that Mycroft would fall if he was up there for another second. Then, there was more silence.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft started, but he never even had a chance.

"YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER COCK!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Sherlock please, I can explain-"

"YOU WERE REALLY GOING TO JUMP, WEREN'T YOU?!"

"I...I didn't have a choice-"

"YOU WERE!!!" Sherlock shoved him forcefully. He wasn't just angry, he was the most angry Mycroft had ever seen him. More angry than the night Mycroft had told him he regretted his existence. More angry than when he had found out Mycroft had betrayed his secrets to Moriarty. Even more angry than that day by the tin shed, during a storm much like this one, when the two of them had wrestled in the mud for hours out of fury at each other, and screamed those hateful things.

"You were going to jump! You were going to kill yourself!" Sherlock yelled, his voice breaking into sobs. He was becoming hysterical. Mycroft grabbed him by the arms in an attempt to hold him still, but Sherlock pounded his chest with his fists much like a five-year-old would. "You were going to jump, and you were going to leave me all alone in this fucked up place without a brother! And you would've been dead, and I never would've said sorry, and I-" but he couldn't talk anymore. He was crying in earnest now, too broken up to even be mad anymore.

Mycroft wrapped Sherlock in a tight embrace, allowing his little brother to cry into his shoulder, and Sherlock hugged him back. He sobbed something that sounded like, _"How could you do this to me?"_

"I'm so sorry," whispered Mycroft, still knowing that it was inexcusable. He began to cry as well. How could he have let himself be so weak as to forget that Sherlock needed him? How could he have been so selfish?

_"Promise me you'll never do that again."_

"Swear to god."

_"You can't leave me."_

"I'm not going anywhere, William."

The moment lasted a few more seconds before Sherlock broke away to wipe his eyes. Politely, Mycroft turned away. He knew that by morning, Sherlock would prefer to act like that moment had never happened. He'd pretend to forget that he had sobbed into Mycroft's shoulder, and that he had allowed his brother  to call him William. And of course, Mycroft would pretend to forget as well. But he wouldn't really. He would never forget the promise he made to Sherlock, nor would he ever break it.

At the opposite end of the roof, the three villains were paying no attention to the moment happening several feet away. They were all a bit busy panicking.

"What are we going to do??" Irene asked. Sebastian was moaning in agony, gripping his thigh where the blood was leaking  steadily from the gunshot wound.

Jim, who had been staring at his friend's bleeding form in silence for several moments, suddenly turned and blew up at Irene. "You had ONE fucking job!" he yelled, shoving her backwards. "ONE!! How the FUCK did he escape?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Irene protested. "I tried to stop him! Besides, it hardly matters now, does it? If we don't get Seb help soon, he'll-"

"DON'T SAY IT!" Jim roared. "Just....don't!"

"Fuck, this hurts," Seb moaned. His voice was weak. He was losing consciousness fast.

"Alright, we have to get him inside," said Jim, his anger at Irene suddenly forgotten. "Grab his arms."

They started to lift him, and from across the roof Mycroft watched. He watched Jim Moriarty- the boy who had pointed a gun to Greg's head, who had almost made Mycroft kill himself to save him- about to walk out the door.

And he decided that he couldn't let that happen. He reached for his gun.

But Jim saw him. He immediately let go of Sebastian and grabbed his own weapon, aiming it at Mycroft.

"No Jim!" Irene yelled at the same time that Sherlock shouted, "Mycroft, stop! Just let them go!"

"No!" said Mycroft, firmly. "I didn't kill him before. I'm not making the same mistake again!"

"If you shoot, then I shoot Mycroft!" said Jim. And there the boys stood for several moments, aiming their guns at each other in what everyone on the roof knew was a pointless stalemate.

"Let it go, Jim!" said Irene. Her voice was irritable and exhausted. "It's over! We have to get Sebastian inside!"

Slowly, Jim lowered his weapon, and Mycroft reluctantly did the same.

"It's _not_ over." said Jim. "Not by a long shot." And his tone was vindictive enough that Mycroft believed him.

Pocketing his weapon, Jim went back to helping Irene lift Sebastian. He jostled his partner's legs carelessly as he lifted them, causing Sebastian to cry out.

"Oh, suck it up!" Jim yelled at him. And they retreated down the stairwell, leaving the Holmes brothers on the roof.

Once their voices faded completely, Mycroft rushed to where Greg lay, still motionless by the doorway. He checked the boy's pulse, just to make sure, and almost cried from relief when he felt the warmth pulsing beneath his fingertips. He pulled Greg up into his arms and held him tight. "God dammit, Lestrade..." Mycroft sighed, running his finger's through the boy's soaking wet hair. "Why....?"

"Irene said the injections she provided would wear off in a few hours," Sherlock said, helpfully. "Mine only wore off early because-"

"Because of the drugs," Mycroft said. "Yeah, I figured as much."

"We should probably head inside," Sherlock suggested. "I'm sure tomorrow is going to be interesting."

Mycroft thought about the body he was sure he had seen lying dead on the school grounds, and knew he was right. Together, they supported Greg's weight on their shoulders and exited the roof, finally sheltering themselves from the cruel night air. Ironically, just as the rain was finally starting to die down.

__________________________

** 11:30 pm - 2:45 am **

By the time everyone was settled back in their rooms, Halloween night was almost over.

Jim and Irene had retreated immediately to Jim's room with Sebastian and laid the injured boy down on his bed. Then, per Jim's instructions, Irene had injected Seb with the same sedative they had used several times that night, and Jim proceeded to google _How to safely remove bullet from a person's leg._

The primitive surgery would go on to take four hours.

****

Mycroft and Sherlock had worked together to clean the awful scene in Sherlock's room before parting ways. Luckily, it wasn't too convoluted.

"The bullet is clean," Sherlock had remarked when he picked it up. "And you honestly thought, even for a second, that I was dead, Mycroft? Wow, you must be slipping."

Mycroft had just smirked. It was great to have his brother back.

Another thing they both made sure to do was dispose of their weapons. Sherlock wanted to keep the gun he had stolen from Irene, since he didn't have one of his own, but Mycroft shook his head. He still didn't know what tomorrow would look like, but he knew that if either of them were found with weapons they'd be screwed. So he dropped Sherlock's newly attained gun, along his own, into the bushes below his window and texted a quick code to his boss. The weapons would be gone by morning.

Finally, the boys were sure to move their unconscious friends to safety. Sherlock laid Molly down in John's bed, and John down in his. He didn't trust Irene enough to send Molly back to sleep in the same room as her, and Sherlock didn't think he himself would sleep tonight anyway.

Mycroft had already taken Greg back to their own room, but before he returned to join him he hugged Sherlock one last time. "Stay safe tonight," he told him.

Sherlock just laughed. "Safe. There's a concept." But then his voice grew serious. "....You too. I mean it."

****

Mycroft returned to room 215 B and was surprised to find Greg stirring under his blankets. "....Myc," he whispered clearly, even though he didn't seem to be fully awake yet. He sounded desperate, his voice full of longing. "Mycroft..."

Mycroft knelt down by his bedside and took his hand. "I'm here," he whispered back, squeezing it tightly.

Greg's hand squeezed back as his eyelids fluttered, and Mycroft found himself staring into those warm brown eyes that he had thought he would never see again. He let out a relived laugh. "Hey," he said.

Immediately, Greg sat up. "What happened? Where-" he looked around, obviously trying to piece together the events of the night, before his eyes landed back on Mycroft. "Myc....you're alive!"

"No shit," said Mycroft, grinning.

Greg laughed and threw his arms around him, before pulling back away too soon. "God, last I remember I was going to follow you. But then...I think I was drugged." He squinted, trying to remember, before deciding that it wasn't important at the moment. "You look absolutely awful, though. What the hell did I miss?"

Mycroft hadn't bothered to look in a mirror at any point over the course of the night, but he had spent over an hour in the middle of a storm and had almost been forced to kill himself, so he didn't doubt that Greg was right. "Everything," Mycroft answered. "But honestly....I'm not sure I can talk about it right now...." For it was right then that Mycroft realized just how exhausted he was, both physically and mentally.

"Then don't," said Greg, quickly standing up to lead him to his own bed. "You can tell me about it in the morning. Get some sleep."

"I don't need sleep," Mycroft muttered, falling down on his mattress and allowing Greg to pull the blankets up over him.

"Uh huh," said Greg, tucking him in. "Did Moriarty hurt you?"

Mycroft hesitated before shaking his head no.

"Is your brother alright?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Then that's all that matters. Now _sleep._ I'll stay with you." Greg pulled up a chair, and now it was him holding Mycroft's hand at his bedside, not the other way around.

Mycroft relaxed into his mattress. Yes, he was tired. Tired and relieved that no one he loved had died tonight, but at the same time absolutely terrified for tomorrow.

"Shh, it's okay," said Greg, sensing Mycroft tense up. He caressed his cheek gently. "Don't think about it. Just sleep. Sleep."

Mycroft sighed, relaxed into Greg's touch, and slept.

****

Molly woke before John did, much to Sherlock's disappointment. Not because he didn't want to talk to Molly, but because he hadn't planned to let her see him holding John's hand while he slept.

He knew that Molly did see, but she said nothing of it. He was grateful for that.

"Sherlock, what happened?" she demanded to know immediately. "Why are you all wet? Were you outside? Are you hurt? Did Irene do something? God, I _knew_ letting you go to that party was a bad idea!"

"Molly, calm down," said Sherlock, simply. "Everything's....well, I don't want to say _okay,_ necessarily, but-"

"Just tell me what happened, for god's sake!"

"Shut up, will you? I'm getting there!" And with that, Sherlock went on to relay the details of the entire night (omitting the brief moment he and John had shared in the hallway, of course) as Molly listened silently, nodding and gasping at all the appropriate moments.

Only when he got to the part where he and Irene were wrestling over the gun did Molly interject. "God, please tell me no one was shot!" she yelled, her eyes darting immediately to John, who still lay apparently comatose in bed.

"....Well," said Sherlock, and then continued on to tell how he had finally won over the weapon by shooting it out into the open, startling Irene, and accidentally wounding Sebastian Moran at the same time.

Understandably, Molly was not at all sympathetic for the boy who had attempted to molest her months prior, and allowed Sherlock to finish the story without further interruption.

"So yeah," Sherlock finished lamely at the end of it. "Moriarty and his partners retreated, and Mycroft and I carried the rest of you back here....and that's it."

" _That's it?!"_ cried Molly in disbelief.

"Yeah. You were a lot heavier than I thought you'd be."

Molly, who was more than used to his inappropriate comments by now, chose to ignore this. She was more focused on the larger issue. "Sherlock.....you do understand that you probably saved your brother's life, don't you? I think that deserves a bit more credit than 'that's it'."

"....Yeah," Sherlock responded, strangely quiet. "But I also shot Moriarty's partner and ruined his well-though-out plan, which means he now has an even greater vendetta against me and everyone I care about than before." He glanced down at John so quickly, one might have thought they imagined seeing his eyes move. "So, you know....it all balances out."

Unsure of what to say, Molly didn't respond.

Sherlock, meanwhile, continued turning his thumb in circles on the back of John's hand....not realizing immediately that John's hand was returning pressure to his. "John, how long have you been awake?" Sherlock asked aloud, once he did realize this.

"Long enough that you don't have to worry about retelling your story," John muttered, just now opening his eyes.

Sherlock chuckled. "Why didn't you say anything?"

John held up his hand, still clutching Sherlock's. "I was afraid that this would stop."

Molly politely turned away, smiling.

"Are you alright?" John asked Sherlock quietly. His voice warned against any lie his roommate might reply with.

Sherlock hesitated. "I'm...I'm not sure, to be honest."

John sat up immediately and hugged Sherlock tightly. "That's to be expected, I suppose." He let him go and turned to Molly. "How about you, Molly?" he asked. "That Sebastian kid, he didn't.....he didn't hurt you, did he?"

Sherlock looked at her as well, mentally kicking himself for not having asked her that himself the moment she woke up. What kind of friend was he?

But luckily, Molly shook her head. "It was actually Moriarty who drugged me," she informed them. "He seemed more about just getting the job done. Didn't stop for chit-chat, or anything else."

"Well that's good, at least," said John. "I wonder why he bothered drugging _you_ , though."

"Moriarty was clever," said Sherlock, standing up to begin his trademarked pace-while-ranting routine. "He was sure to remove everyone who could possibly have aided Mycroft tonight from the equation. And tonight was indeed about Mycroft, not me, for he had made an agreement with Irene that, in exchange for her help, Mycroft would be killed first and foremost."

"So what are they going to do now?" John asked. "Their plan failed, didn't it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not all of it. Yes, my brother lives, but I think it's safe to assume that my own fate is sealed.

"While tonight may not have been exclusively about me," he continued, before John could ask the question budding on his lips. "It did involve the very beginning of the part that _will_ be about me. Mycroft may be alive, but someone else clearly died tonight."

"How could you tell?" John asked, his voice full of combined fear and amazement.

"Sebastian's shirt collar."

"WHAT?!" both Molly and John exclaimed, their voices annoyed and impressed, respectively.

Sherlock sighed, and was about to tell them off for being unobservant....before remembering that neither of them were actually there.

"It was stained with blood," he explained patiently. "Most of his shirt was, actually, but anyone else might have assumed it was from after I shot him. However, the bullet I released hit him in the thigh, and even the pool of blood that he lay in afterward was not given the opportunity to reach his collar. It was blood from earlier; therefore, the boy murdered someone else tonight."

"How do you know he didn't just attack someone else?" Molly challenged. "Why did it have to be murder?"

"Simple, I understand how they plan to destroy me," Sherlock said solemnly. "Their attack on Viktor Jacobsen makes even more sense now."

The meaning of what Sherlock was saying dawned on John first. "You think....you think they murdered him to frame you?"

Molly gasped. "Oh my god."

"I'd rather not think about it, truthfully," Sherlock replied. He sounded ancient all of a sudden, his voice weighted with a thousand worries. "I'd much rather go to bed one more time pretending that everything's going to be okay in the morning."

Without waiting for his friends to respond, Sherlock collapsed to the floor unapologetically and closed his eyes. He appeared to fall asleep right there on the carpet, but of course, you never knew with Sherlock. For all Molly and John knew, he was only in his mind palace and could still hear every word they said.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Molly whispered.

"He has to be," said John, his voice cracking. "He's Sherlock Holmes. If anyone's going to fix this, it will be him."

They lay awake for a couple more hours, discussing in hushed voices the possibilities of tomorrow, before they too drifted off to sleep.

 


End file.
